Chapter 123 The Memories
The house was silent when Carson returned. The gates closed behind his car with a slow metallic groan, echoing in the stillness of the night.
The driveway lights came on one by one as he drove toward the mansion.
The windows were dark except for a faint golden glow coming from the corridor upstairs.
He parked, turned off the engine, and sat still for a moment. His hands rested on the steering wheel, but he didn’t move.
The sound of the ticking clock from the hallway reached his ears even from outside.
It was the same clock that had filled the house with sound earlier that evening when everything had fallen apart.
Finally, he opened the door and stepped out. His shoes made soft sounds against the marble floor as he entered the hall.
The air smelled faintly of lilies and polish. His mother’s voice no longer echoed through the rooms, but her words still did in his head.
He climbed the stairs slowly, his steps heavy.
Every corner of the mansion seemed to whisper with memories—voices, laughter, arguments, all hidden beneath the quiet. When he reached his room, he pushed the door open and walked in.
The large room was neat and cold. The curtains were half drawn, and the moonlight from outside touched the edge of the bed.
His jacket felt heavy on his shoulders, so he pulled it off and threw it on the chair. He loosened his tie and stood still for a while, breathing slowly.
His chest felt tight.
He walked toward the bathroom, switched on the light, and stared at himself in the mirror.
His reflection looked older, the same face he had seen in the car mirror earlier, but under this bright light, the weariness was sharper. His eyes looked distant, tired, and sad.
He reached for the tap and turned it on. The water came out with a soft hiss, steam filling the air. He undressed silently and stepped into the shower.
The first touch of water was cold, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, letting it fall on him.
Then slowly, as the water warmed, it began to feel like the only real thing left. The streams ran down his face, washing away the faint smell of whiskey and the tension in his muscles.
He closed his eyes.
And then, just like that, she came back to him. Anabelle.
Her name was a whisper in his mind, soft and tender. The way she used to say his name, the way she laughed when he teased her about her terrible cooking.
It had been so long, yet her laughter was still the clearest sound he could remember.
He leaned against the wall, feeling the water trail down his arms. The warmth mixed with the cold tile against his back, and it all became a blur—past and present tangled together.
He could see her again, standing barefoot by the lake behind his family’s summer house. The evening sun had made her hair look like gold. She had turned to him and smiled.
“Race you to the water,” she had said.
He smiled faintly at the memory. He remembered running after her, both of them laughing, splashing water, forgetting everything else. She had always known how to make him forget.
Now he tried, but he couldn’t.
His breath trembled as he remembered her eyes—so alive, so full of warmth. He remembered how she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.
He had once told her that she didn’t need to change anything about herself, and she had laughed, saying, “That’s easy for you to say.”
The memory hurts now.
The sound of the shower filled the room. He lifted his face toward the water, trying to drown the ache that had begun to grow inside him.
He whispered under his breath, “Where did we go wrong?”
No one answered.
He remembered the night they had last seen each other. The shouting. The silence that followed.
The way she had walked out, her voice trembling when she said she couldn’t do this anymore.
He had told himself he would call her the next day, but he never did. Pride had stopped him, and time had done the rest.
The water slid down his neck and chest, carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
He ran his fingers through his wet hair and let out a slow breath. “You were right, Anabelle,” he whispered. “You were always right.”
The room seemed smaller, the sound of the shower louder. He pressed his palms against the wall, his head bowed.
The water felt heavier now, as though it carried the weight of all his regrets.
He thought about her again—how she had held his hand in the rain once, refusing to run for cover. “It’s just water,” she’d said. “It can’t hurt us.”
But now, standing there under the stream, he felt that water could hurt more than anything else.
Minutes passed, maybe more. He lost track of time. His thoughts drifted between what was and what would never be again.
When the water began to cool, he reached for the knob and turned it off. The sudden silence filled the room again. Only the soft sound of droplets hitting the floor remained.
He stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. His skin was warm, but his chest still felt cold inside.
He wiped the fog from the mirror and looked at himself once more.
The man staring back looked like someone who had lost too much and understood too late.
He turned off the light and walked back to his room. The air was cooler there. He crossed the floor, stopped by the bed, and sat down slowly.
His gaze drifted to the small framed photograph on the bedside table—Anabelle and him, smiling in a park years ago.
She had her hand on his shoulder, and he had been laughing at something she said. He reached out and picked up the frame.
For a long while, he just held it, his thumb brushing over her face in the picture. “I should have fought harder,” he whispered.
The ticking of the clock outside the door returned. It was the only sound again, steady and unchanging.
Carson lay back on the bed, still holding the photo. The towel loosened around his waist, and the cool air brushed his damp skin.
He closed his eyes, listening to the silence, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him.
The image of Anabelle’s smile came again—bright, warm, alive. He wanted to hold on to that.
He wanted to remember her like that, not as the memory that hurt, but as the reason he once knew how to feel.
As sleep began to pull at him, his last thought was a quiet whisper in the dark.
“I just wish you were here.”