I fell ill.
Holding the dried-up paints and brushes, I collapsed in the spring.
Outside the window, clusters of withered flowers hung like dead weight, their lifeless forms a stark reminder of my own state.
Sometimes, I felt those sickly blooms were me—fragile, broken, and fading.
The flowers were dying, and so was I.
My mother’s painting, her last keepsake, was gone, and with it, my spirit seemed to wither away.
Day after day, I counted the hours, waiting for my message to reach Lawson, my mentor and closest ally in the Oliver Pack.
When would he arrive in the city?
Sometimes, I would count for what felt like an eternity, only for my attendant to tell me it had only been a day.
Finally, a message came from Lawson:
“I’ll arrive in seven days. I’ve met a friend along the way who’s skilled in restoring paintings.”
By my calculations, he’d be here tomorrow.
And that friend of his might just be the one to save my mother’s painting!
With renewed determination, I packed the painting and supplies into a chest, carefully arranging each item.
That night, a fire broke out in the Bennett estate.
The rest of the estate was untouched, but the flames engulfed the quarters of the two young mates, Louise and her sister.
The fire raged with an intensity that left everyone shaken.
The sickly flowers outside my window reflected the blaze, their branches consumed by the flames.
As I watched them burn to ashes, I felt as though I, too, had been reborn.
