Chapter 2 - The Face at the Glass
Eleanor stood frozen, the silver band pressing deeply into the palm of her hand. The noise of the ballroom—the laughter, the light piano music, the chatter of high-society guests—faded into a distant, unintelligible hum. Everything in her world narrowed down to the dark expanse of glass at the far end of the hall.
Slowly, step by agonizing step, Eleanor turned her head toward the French doors.
Outside, the manicured gardens were bathed in the deep indigo of a moonless night. The garden lights had failed or been turned off, leaving only the dark silhouette of oak trees against the sky. But standing just beyond the threshold, lit only by the faint light spilling from the ballroom, was a figure.
It was a man in a dark suit. He stood perfectly still, his posture erect, his hands resting naturally by his sides. His face was pale, lined with the marks of age, yet unmistakably familiar. The silver hair, the sharp jawline, the soft curve of his brow—it was Thomas Read. Not the twenty-two-year-old young man who had vanished into the ocean forty-three years ago, but an old man. An old man who had grown old without her.
As Eleanor stared through the glass, her own terrified reflection overlapped with his distant face. He was looking directly at her. A gentle, solemn smile touched his lips, and he bowed his head in a quiet, haunting greeting.
“Eleanor? Are you alright, dear?”
The voice of her daughter, Clara—Lily’s mother—broke the spell. Clara walked up, placing a comforting hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.
Eleanor blinked rapidly, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She looked back at the glass doors. The figure was gone. There was only the reflection of the ballroom lights and the dark wind moving through the trees.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Clara said softly, examining her mother’s pale face with growing concern. “Lily, what did you say to your grandmother?”
“I just gave her the ring,” Lily said, adjusting her dress. “From Grandpa Thomas.”
Clara frowned, looking between her daughter and Eleanor. “Lily, stop playing silly games. Your grandfather Richard is over by the bar talking to his business partners. Who are you talking about?”
May you like
Eleanor looked down at her open hand. The silver ring remained, heavy and real. The chill of the metal was spreading up her arm, reaching straight to her heart.
“It wasn't a game, Clara,” Eleanor whispered, her voice barely audible over the ballroom noise. “It wasn't a game at all.”
