Chapter 4 - The Boardroom and the Garden
While Alexander began his difficult education behind closed doors, Matthew and Lucy continued their secret world beneath the ancient weeping willow at the edge of the estate’s east garden.
The autumn leaves were turning gold and amber, floating down to carpet the manicured grass like scattered copper coins. Matthew sat with his legs crossed, sketching a detailed, intricate drawing of the Orion constellation in a thick black notebook. Lucy sat beside him, munching on an apple, occasionally pointing to a star he had drawn and signing a clumsy question.
Far? she signed.
Matthew looked up, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. He shook his head, signing rapidly: Very far. Light takes one thousand three hundred years to reach us from the Orion Nebula. When we look at it, we are looking into the past.
Lucy’s eyes widened. Does looking into the past make you sad?
Matthew paused. His pencil hovered over the paper. The light in his expression dimmed just a fraction, the ghost of his mother’s memory casting a shadow over the bright afternoon. He signed slowly, his fingers moving with deliberate care: Sometimes. It reminds me of the music.
The music? Lucy asked, her hands moving carefully.
My mother played the piano, Matthew signed, looking out toward the French doors of the mansion. She said the floorboards remembered how to sing even when the sound was gone. My dad had the piano removed two years after the accident. He said it was just taking up space.
Lucy watched him, her heart aching. She knew the billionaire’s mansion was filled with expensive art, modern sculptures, and rare antiques, but it lacked a soul because the man who owned it was still hiding from his own grief.
At that exact moment, across the lawn, the French doors of the study flew open.
Alexander Vale stepped out onto the terrace. He wasn't wearing his customary tailored suit jacket; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, forearms, and he held a notepad in one hand. He walked slowly down the stone steps, his eyes fixed on the two children beneath the willow tree.
Matthew stiffened, pulling his sketchbook into his lap. The old defense mechanism—the polite, untouchable mask—slid back over his face.
Alexander stopped ten feet away. He didn't shout. He didn't look past them toward the corporate offices.
Instead, lifting his hands, his fingers awkwardly formed the signs Clara and his late-night tutoring sessions had drilled into him over the past seventy-two hours.
Hello... my... son.
Matthew froze.
His pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling across the grass. He stared at his father’s hands, his mouth parting in sheer disbelief. The signs were clumsy, halting, and grammatically imperfect—but they were unmistakably there.
Alexander took a deep breath, his hands moving again, signing a sentence that had taken him three hours to memorize: Are... you... okay?
May you like
Tears welled suddenly in Matthew’s eyes—not tears of pain or fear, but of an overwhelming, long-denied validation. For six years, he had waited for his father to cross the invisible river that separated their worlds.
And now, standing beneath the autumn leaves, Alexander was finally walking across.
