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  The manor was quiet again, save for the whisper of rain still dripping from the eaves and the occasional groan of old wood. Hyacintha led Baldwin through the corridor with a faint smile tugging at her lips, her hand still linked gently with his. The chill of the storm clung to the corners of the house, but there was warmth now—an almost glowing, radiant warmth that followed them like a second light.

  When she pushed open the door to her room, it was as if the past stirred all at once.

  “I know you saw this room already,” she said softly, brushing a damp curl from her face as she stepped inside. “but I wasn’t awake to greet you properly.”

  Baldwin smiled beneath his silver gaze, still silent, letting her speak—letting her offer him the little fragments of herself she had kept hidden from the world.

  She moved across the room, her fingers brushing lightly against the familiar edge of her vanity, then the carved frame of her bed. “It’s still messy. I’ve been restless lately … and I suppose I never grew out of being a little chaotic.”

  He chuckled, voice low. “That much, I remember well.”

  She opened a small cedar chest near the window, revealing neatly folded linens, a few trinkets, and at the very bottom—sheets of yellowed parchment curled at the edges. “I used to draw everything,” she said, crouching down as she pulled them free. “before painting, before I even knew how to write properly. I was always sketching.”

  She offered one to him, hesitantly. “This was one of the first. I was only eight, I think.”

  Baldwin took the paper carefully in his gloved hands and stared. Two figures stood side by side, drawn in childlike strokes with dark charcoal—one tall, with gentle eyes and a crown of curls; the other holding a flower, smiling brightly. Despite the clumsy lines, there was something undeniably tender in the image. Love, captured by a child’s hand.

  “My father and mother,” she murmured. “I used to think if I drew them enough, I could make them stay forever.”

  He looked at her—truly looked at her—before slowly placing the drawing back atop the chest. “You kept this all these years.”

  “Of course I did,” she whispered. “They were all I had for a long time. Until Jerusalem. Until you.”

  Silence settled between them, but it was not heavy. It was full.

  And Baldwin, for a moment, said nothing. He only reached for her hand again, gently entwining his fingers with hers.

  “Thank you,” he said. “for letting me see them. For letting me see you.”

  “I know it’s childish, but I kept them,” she said, walking to the corner where a small, well-worn chest sat beside a window. “these were my favorite toys when I was little.”

  She knelt beside the chest, flipping it open with a nostalgic creak. “Look! This little horse—I named him Sir Buttercup. He used to ‘defend’ my pillow fortress.” She pulled out a small wooden toy, the paint chipped but still vibrant in spots, and offered it to Baldwin with bright eyes.

  Baldwin crouched beside her, carefully taking the toy in his hands. “Sir Buttercup,” he repeated, amusement threading through his voice. “he looks like a knight of great honor.”

  Hyacintha laughed, reaching back into the chest. “And this—this was my favorite doll. She’s missing an eye because I tried to paint her lashes with ink.” she cradled the old doll in her arms, as if it were still something precious. Her energy had shifted—gentler, filled with warmth, the kind that came only from memories untouched by bitterness.