The garden is my battlefield today.
After weeks of silence, bitter glares, and sword-like notes, I decide to change my strategy.
No more pushing, no more prying. Today, I’ll let Alexander take the lead if he wants to.
When I find him beneath the oak tree, he’s sketching. His hand moves with sharp, deliberate strokes across the paper, and I can’t help but admire the precision. I approach quietly, sitting on the edge of the stone bench across from him.
Instead of speaking, I sign a simple greeting: Hello, Alexander.
His hand pauses mid-stroke. His cool blue eyes flick up to meet mine, narrowing slightly. Then, with exaggerated slowness, he sets his pencil down and crosses his arms.
I take a breath, keeping my hands steady as I sign again. What are you drawing?
He doesn’t answer, not at first. Instead, he picks up his notepad and scribbles furiously.
What do you want this time?
I read the note and meet his glare head-on. He’s testing me, just like always. Fine. Two can play this game.
I set the notepad aside and respond entirely in signs. I want to know you. Your interests. Your thoughts. The real you.
For the first time, there’s no immediate comeback. He watches me. Then, slowly, he lifts the sketchpad, angling it so I can see.
It’s a drawing of the mansion’s garden, but it’s not just a replica. There’s something alive in the way he’s captured the light filtering through the leaves, the delicate details of the flowers.
It’s beautiful, I sign.
His lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. He sets the sketchpad down and writes another note.
Why are you pretending to care?
I shake my head, signing deliberately. I’m not pretending. I mean it. Teach me.
That gets a reaction. His brow furrows, and he leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve.
Instead of pushing further, I sit quietly and let the moment linger. Eventually, he picks up his pencil again, glancing at me once before returning to his sketch.
It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.
***
Evening approaches and I'm smiling like an idiot as I retreat to my room. I can't believe I actually got him to open up a little. Maybe there's hope for us after all.
But my little happiness is interrupted by a call coming from Victor. I frown when I swipe to answer. "Hello, Mr. Cain."
“Eliza. You’ve been there for weeks. Where’s the progress?”
I clutch the phone tighter, leaning against the door. "These things take time. Alexander isn’t—”
“Spare me the excuses,” he cuts in. “I don’t care about his tantrums or his mood swings. Just get the signature. Or do I need to remind you what’s at stake?”
My stomach twists. He doesn’t need to remind me.
“I’ll handle it,” I say tightly.
“You’d better.” He hangs up without another word.
My knees weaken so I let my back slides down the door. I need to find a way to get Alexander to sign those papers before it's too late.
But the truth is, I’m not sure I can handle it. Alexander is like a fortress, and every step forward feels like two steps back.
But quitting isn’t an option. Not for me. Not for my mother.
***
The next day, I make a bold decision. I won’t speak at all.
I spend the morning preparing, brushing up on the signs I’ve learned and rehearsing potential conversations in my head. When I finally find Alexander in the library, I take a deep breath and step inside.
He glances at me briefly before returning to his book.
Good morning, I sign.
His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. He watches as I take a seat across from him, my hands already moving. Today, I’ll only use sign language. No words. Just this.
His brow arches, and for a moment, I think he might laugh. Instead, he shakes his head and picks up his notepad.
You’re wasting your time.
Maybe, I sign back. But it’s my time to waste, not yours.
That earns a faint twitch of his lips. He closes his book and signs something too fast for me to catch.
I hold up my hands, smiling apologetically. Slower, please. I’m still learning.
With a sigh, he repeats the signs more deliberately: Why are you doing this?
Because I want to understand you, I respond.
His hands move again, slower this time.
No one ever has.
The honesty in his words catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget to respond, staring at him in stunned silence. Then I quickly recover, signing back: Then let me try.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans back in his chair.
The rest of the day passes in a strange pace. I follow Alexander through his routines, communicating solely through signs and gestures. At first, he seems irritated by my persistence, but gradually, his walls begin to crack.
In the evening, as we sit together in the garden, he surprises me by signing something unprompted.
Before the accident, I used to paint.
The admission is so unexpected, it takes me a moment to respond. Do you still paint?
He shakes his head. Not anymore.
Why not?
His gaze drops to his lap, his hands stilling. For a long time, he doesn’t answer. Then, finally, he signs: Because it doesn’t feel the same. Nothing does.
The pain in his words hits me like a punch to the chest. I want to say something that might help, but I know better than to offer empty reassurances.
Instead, I sign: I’d like to see your paintings someday.
He doesn’t respond, but the way his blue eyes dilate is enough to tell me I’ve planted a seed.
For the first time, I think Alexander Cain might actually let me in.
