Over the years, having witnessed the fickleness of people and the cold warmth of the world, Briony had come to understand a simple truth: human nature was unpredictable, and hearts were impossible to read. Only money and her career were things she could truly rely on–things she could grasp through her own hard work
Five years ago, she’d given up a coveted opportunity–her mentor’s recommendation for further study–just to stay in Northborough and care for Irwin. Her mentor, furious at her decision, had out off all contact.
It was still Briony’s greatest regret.
She’d always felt she’d let her mentor down, wasted the years of patience and guidance. So for the past five years, she’d continued to study and improve herself in every spare moment, buying books and materials to keep learning and growing.
After college, she’d taken out a loan to open her own studio.
Now, the studio was finally thriving. Her projects paid more and more each month, and her personal savings were enough to guarantee both her and her mother a secure future.
In truth, everything seemed to be moving in the right direction.
As for those people she could never hold on to, she’d learned to let them go. Perhaps that was what it meant to grow up.
Finishing up the last bit of restoration work for the night, Briony carefully placed the artifact back in its container.
Returning to her office, she poured herself a cup of warm water and drank it in one go.
Setting the cup down, her eyes drifted to the calendar on her desk. She picked up a pen and drew a firm X over today’s date.
Only eight days left. Eight days until her mother was released.
The forecast said it would be a clear, sunny day.
Bzz–bzz-
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
It was Stewart calling.
Briony frowned, took a steadying breath, and answered.
“When are you coming home?” Stewart’s deep voice rumbled through the receiver.
Briony glanced at the clock. Two in the morning.
She was exhausted and had no desire to drive half an hour back in the dead of night.
Rubbing the stiffness from her neck, she spoke coolly, “What is it?”
“Irwin’s waiting for you. He wants you to read him a bedtime story.”
Briony’s hand paused, still at her neck.
She remembered how Stewart had spent the afternoon comforting Rosita with Irwin in his arms, and the memory left a bitter taste.
“I’m not coming home tonight,” she replied, her tone flat and emotionless. “You put him to bed.”
With that, Briony hung up.
A second later, Stewart called again.
Frustrated, Briony switched off her phone and tossed it onto the desk. She pushed open the door to the
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Chapter 8
adjoining lounge and stepped inside.
Late nights were common for restorers like her, so when she’d had the studio renovated, she’d set aside a small lounge with a bathroom attached. It was stocked with everyday essentials and a change of clothes. Sometimes, when work piled up, she’d bring Irwin along, settling him to sleep before returning to her projects. The lounge always had some of Irwin’s things, just in case.
After a quick shower, she changed into pajamas, ready to finally get some rest–when suddenly, the sound of a child crying pierced the quiet.
“Mom! Mom, please open the door-!”
Briony froze.
Was that… Irwin?
She hurried from her office and rushed to the studio entrance.
Through the glass door, she saw Stewart, holding a sobbing Irwin in his arms.
Irwin was bundled in a thick winter coat, but underneath he still wore his pajamas. His small feet were bare–he hadn’t even put on socks.
Outside, the Northborough winter night hovered near minus thirty.
Irwin’s immune system was weak. If he caught a chill…
Briony’s worry flared into anger as she strode forward and unlocked the door. “Why on earth would you bring him out at this hour-?”
“Mom!”
Irwin wriggled free from Stewart’s arms and flung himself at Briony.
She instinctively caught him.
Irwin clung to her neck, burying his face in her shoulder as he wailed.
“Mom, don’t leave me! Please, don’t leave me-”
Briony’s brow knit in concern, her face going pale.
Her stomach, which had stopped hurting a while ago, suddenly throbbed again with a dull ache…
15:
