Chapter 1 - THE SILENCE OF THE MARBLE
The three knocks echoed through the manicured garden,
vibrating against the stone pillars,
and chilling the very air we breathed.
Mr. Theodore Bennett,
the man who had crushed rivals with a single phone call,
looked as if he had seen a phantom.
His hands,
thin and trembling,
clutched the armrests of his silver wheelchair.
The attorney standing beside him,
Mr. Sterling,
dropped his leather briefcase,
letting legal documents scatter like dead leaves across the grass.
I felt the blood drain from my own face,
as I looked at my young son,
Samuel.
He stood there,
his small hand still pointing at the darkened windows of the East Wing,
his expression calm,
almost knowing.
The gardener,
who had been trimming the hedges for twenty years,
slowly crossed himself.
"There is no one in that wing,"
Theodore whispered,
though his voice lacked any conviction.
"It has been sealed since the fire of ninety-eight,"
he added,
looking at the staff as if daring them to contradict him.
But the knocks came again,
slower this time,
more deliberate,
three heavy thuds that seemed to pulse from the heart of the house.
Samuel didn't flinch,
he simply tilted his head,
listening to a rhythm only he could understand.
"She isn't scary,"
Samuel said,
breaking the suffocating silence of the garden.
"She just wants her locket back,"
he continued,
his voice sweet and innocent against the backdrop of a dark secret.
Theodore’s eyes widened,
becoming two orbs of pure terror.
"What locket?"
he choked out,
his throat tight with unshed tears.
I stepped forward,
grabbing Samuel’s shoulder,
trying to pull him back into the safety of my shadow.
"Samuel,
hush now,"
I pleaded,
feeling the weight of the billionaire’s gaze on us.
But Theodore wasn't angry,
he was broken.
He reached out a hand,
gesturing for us to come closer,
ignoring the protests of his high-priced lawyer.
"Let him speak,"
Theodore commanded,
his voice regaining a fragment of its former power.
"Tell me,
child,
how do you know about the lady?"
Samuel smiled,
a small,
sad smile that looked too old for his face.
"I see her in the glass,"
he explained,
pointing to the reflection in the pond.
"When the moon is high,
she stands by the window and cries."
The staff began to whisper,
a low hiss of gossip and fear.
The East Wing was a forbidden zone,
a place of dust and heavy drapes,
where no light had entered for a decade.
Theodore closed his eyes,
and a single,
large tear rolled down into his gray beard.
"I thought I had buried the memory,"
he murmured,
so softly I almost missed it.
"I thought I had protected her from the world."
Suddenly,
a shadow moved behind the glass of the third-floor window.
It was faint,
a mere blur of white fabric,
but it was there.
The attorney stepped back,
tripping over a decorative urn.
"This is impossible,"
Sterling stammered,
"The records say she died in the institution!"
Theodore looked up at the window,
his face a mask of grief.
"Records can be bought,"
he said,
"but the truth has a way of breathing through the walls."
He turned back to Samuel,
his eyes searching my son's face for a sign of a miracle.
"You said she wants a locket?"
Samuel nodded,
reaching into his pocket.
"I found it in the rosebushes,"
he said,
holding out a tarnished gold heart.
The garden fell into a silence so deep,
you could hear the bees buzzing a hundred yards away.
Theodore reached for the jewelry,
his fingers brushing Samuel’s small palm.
As he touched the metal,
a sharp,
piercing scream erupted from the East Wing.
It wasn't a scream of pain,
but one of recognition.
The powerful man,
the king of the skyline,
slumped in his chair and began to wail.
He didn't care about his fortune,
or his reputation,
or the lawyers watching his every move.
He only cared about the voice behind the door.
"Unlock it,"
Theodore gasped,
pointing at the house.
"Bring the keys,"
May you like
he ordered,
"and may God forgive me for what I have done."
