A few days later, the estate was oddly quiet, the kind of stillness that comes before a storm.
My aunt was in the main house, her movements deliberate, as if she were preparing for something significant.
Her silence was a barrier I couldn’t penetrate, and I wondered if she was as uneasy about the upcoming meeting as I was.
My mind kept drifting back to the vases.
They seemed to hold a story, one that was intertwined with the history of this place.
Yet, every attempt to discuss them with my aunt ended in the same clipped refusal.
That afternoon, I decided to take a walk around the estate.
The gardens were overgrown, a testament to years of neglect.
But in the midst of the chaos, there were glimpses of the past—an old stone bench, a weathered statue, remnants of a time when the estate was alive with laughter and conversation.
I sat on the bench, the cool stone grounding me.
