The days following the storm seemed to carry a quiet weight. Willowmere had returned to its rhythm—the fields needed tending, the children's laughter still filled the air, and the sun still set each evening in brilliant hues of orange and purple. But Ian, despite his efforts to keep going, could feel it. The subtle, quiet shift in his own body. The fatigue that never quite left him. It was like the edges of his world were fraying, just a little at a time, and he was powerless to stop it.
He couldn't ignore the coughs that had started coming more frequently, nor the sharpness in his side that sometimes left him breathless. He hadn't told anyone—not Mira, not Noah, and especially not the children. He wanted to protect them from that reality. But each day, it became harder to mask.
Today was one of those days. He was in the barn, helping Noah with some repairs, when the pain in his side flared unexpectedly. It was a sharp, ripping sensation that left him frozen, his hands gripping the wooden beam of the barn door. His breath came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, he couldn't move. His vision blurred. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself.
It passed quickly, as it always did, but the fear lingered.
"Hey, Ian?" Noah's voice cut through the haze. Ian blinked and turned, forcing a smile. Noah was standing by the hay bales, eyes narrowed with concern.
"I'm fine," Ian managed, though the words felt weak. "Just a little tired, that's all."
Noah didn't buy it. He studied Ian for a moment, then nodded slowly. "If you need to rest, you should. Don't push yourself too hard."
Ian wanted to argue, to tell him it was nothing. But he knew Noah saw through the lie. Instead, he nodded, albeit reluctantly.
"I'll take it easy," he said, but the words tasted bitter.
Noah gave him a small, knowing smile and walked back to the task at hand, though Ian could feel the weight of his concern following him.
Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped low in the sky, Ian found himself sitting by the window in the kitchen, watching Mira prepare dinner. The children were outside, playing in the fading light, their laughter a sweet balm against the growing unease in his chest. The pain was still there, a dull throb, but for now, it was manageable. For now.
He pulled out his notebook, fingers brushing the worn leather cover. It had become his sanctuary, the place where he could spill his thoughts without fear of judgment, without the heavy weight of his family's expectations. He opened it to the most recent entry:
"Some days, I wonder how long I can keep pretending I'm fine. I wonder if the people around me know the difference between who I am and who I want to be. I don't want to be the fragile one, the one everyone tiptoes around. But I'm afraid that's all I am. That's all I'll ever be."
He stared at the words, the weight of them sinking in, and then, with a deep breath, closed the notebook.
Just then, the door creaked open, and Mira walked in, a soft smile on her face. "Dinner's almost ready," she said, her voice light but with an undercurrent of concern.
Ian nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at her. She had been a constant presence in his life here, a quiet strength that had slowly pulled him back from the brink of himself. She was more than just a friend; she had become the sister he never had, the family he had always longed for.
"Thanks," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mira paused, her eyes lingering on him for a moment, as if searching for something. Then, she gave a small nod and left him to his thoughts.
That evening, as they all sat around the table, the weight of Ian's silence was palpable. He laughed when Theo cracked a joke, shared in the conversation when Aria asked about his day, but there was an invisible barrier between them. He could feel it in the way Mira looked at him, in the way Calix would glance over as though he knew something was wrong. But they didn't ask. They didn't need to. They understood.
Dinner was over quickly, and the children were tucked into bed, their soft breathing a comforting sound in the house. Ian stood by the window once again, watching the moon rise over the fields. It was quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that allowed his thoughts to flood back in.
What if the time he had here was running out? What if he would have to say goodbye before he was ready? The idea left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was the truth he had been trying to outrun.
He was running out of time.
Back at the Clifford mansion, the atmosphere was tense and heavy, but no one spoke of it aloud. The house was too grand, too empty. The walls seemed to echo their unspoken regrets. James stood before the grand window, his hands folded behind his back, watching the grounds below. His thoughts were far away, lost in memories of Ian's absence.
Elina had retreated to her study, her eyes red from hours of going through old photographs and letters—memories of moments she had chosen to forget. The guilt weighed on her like a stone in her chest.
They had failed Ian. All of them.
And now, he was gone.
Would he come back? Or had they lost him forever?
The next morning, as Ian stood in the fields, the sun casting long shadows over the land, he made a decision. He wouldn't wait anymore. He wouldn't let fear or illness dictate his future. He would live. Truly live. Even if only for a short while. He would make this life worth something.
He watched as the children ran ahead, their laughter carried on the breeze. And for the first time in weeks, he felt peace.