It was the kind of slow, persistent drizzle that wrapped the entire city in a blanket of melancholy. Each droplet tapped against rooftops, leaves, and concrete like the ticking of a distant clock — steady, unrelenting, almost thoughtful. The city wasn't asleep, but it was quieter now, hushed under the weight of a gloomy midnight sky.
Kael stood at the corner of 7th and Arnares, staring at the rusted gates in front of him. The wrought iron arch above bore faded, flaking paint, its name barely legible beneath the overgrowth of ivy and time.
Rosemont Conservatory – Est. 1982.
The old botanical garden had been abandoned for years, hidden in plain sight behind a collapsing stone wall and an overgrown patch of city land no developer wanted to touch. Students whispered that it was haunted. Some said people disappeared inside. Most had simply forgotten it existed at all.
Kael hadn't planned to be here tonight.
He'd been on his way home when the call came — a number not saved in his phone, a voice that spoke calmly and clearly, giving him a place and a time.
"You don't know me, but I knew your father. I need to see you. Tonight. Rosemont Conservatory. Midnight."
The call had ended before he could respond.
He should have ignored it.
But he hadn't.
Now he was here.
The gate creaked as he pushed it open, metal scraping against stone. The sound echoed through the night like a cry from something ancient, long forgotten. He stepped inside slowly, each footfall muffled by wet gravel and rotting leaves. His hoodie was soaked through, water dripping from the hem. The cold had settled deep into his bones.
He didn't care.
This place felt like memory.
Not one he could name — but one he felt in his chest. A strange pressure behind the ribs. A tightening in the throat.
The path was barely visible beneath a mess of vines and cracked stone. Gnarled tree roots had split through the walkway, curling like arthritic fingers around old benches and rusted lampposts. Wild grass reached up to his knees. Flowers bloomed where they shouldn't — vivid and defiant against the decay.
Kael's eyes swept the darkness.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
He walked carefully, every sense on alert. Not out of fear. It wasn't fear that drove him forward.
It was something else.
Need.
A need he hadn't admitted to himself until now.
A need to know the truth.
The center of the garden was marked by the ruins of the old glass dome. Once a botanical showpiece, it now stood as a skeleton of iron and fractured glass. Vines climbed its ribs. Cracks spidered across what little glass remained. Moonlight shimmered through the mist like silver threads woven between shadows.
And there — standing just beneath the crumbling arch — was a man.
Kael stopped.
The man didn't move.
He wore a long, weather-stained coat and a cap pulled low over his brow. His shoulders were hunched slightly forward, as if used to carrying burdens. In one hand, he held a large black umbrella, its fabric glistening with rain.
Kael remained still for a long moment.
He studied the figure carefully — the posture, the silence, the way he didn't call out, didn't beckon. He was waiting. Not with arrogance or threat. But with patience.
Kael took a breath and stepped forward.
The gravel crunched beneath his shoes.
Ten paces.
Then five.
Then three.
Close enough to speak, not close enough to trust.
"You called me," Kael said, his voice even, though his pulse tapped faster beneath his skin.
The man looked up slowly. Kael caught the edge of an old scar running down his cheek, just below his right eye.
"You've grown," the man said. His voice was soft — not frail, but weathered. Like an old violin string still in tune.
Kael didn't answer. His expression didn't change.
The man continued. "You look like him. Your father."
Silence.
Kael's jaw twitched, just barely.
"Who are you?"
The man finally took off his cap and bowed his head slightly.
"My name is Domingo Ruiz. I was once… your father's aide. His assistant. His confidant. I served the Virelles family for more than fifteen years."
Kael's gaze didn't waver.
"And why are you here now?"
Domingo straightened slowly. The rain continued to fall, steady and soft around them.
"Because I failed you."
Kael blinked.
"I was there when your father's will was hidden. When your name was erased. When everything fell apart. I couldn't stop it. I should've protected you. But I didn't."
Kael said nothing. His eyes searched the man's face — for lies, for theatrics, for the false sincerity he'd learned to detect after years of struggling alone.
But what he saw instead… was regret.
Not the performative kind.
But something that had lived inside the man for a long, long time.
Domingo reached into his coat, slowly, deliberately, and pulled out a small, black envelope.
It was old. The edges were curled, the paper thick and sealed with wax. There were no markings. No name.
Kael didn't move.
"This," Domingo said quietly, "was left by your father. He told me to find you. To give this to you when the time was right."
Kael stared at it, unmoving.
"What's in it?" he asked.
"I don't know," Domingo replied. "I never opened it. I never could. It's yours."
Kael reached out slowly, his fingers brushing the envelope. He expected something strange — something heavy, electric, dramatic.
But it was just… paper.
Still, he didn't open it.
Not yet.
He held it in both hands, staring at the sealed wax.
A lump formed in his throat before he could stop it.
This was the first thing he'd touched in ten years that had belonged to his father.
Not a memory.
Not a photograph.
Not a whisper or a headline.
Something real.
Something physical.
And in that moment, under the shattered dome of a forgotten garden, surrounded by rain and silence, Kael felt something stir inside him he hadn't felt in years:
Grief.
Raw.
Unspoken.
Undeniable.
Domingo stepped back.
"I won't force you," he said. "You've suffered enough. But if you decide to open it… and you want to know more… meet me again. I'll be waiting. Not forever. Just… for a little while."
Kael said nothing.
Domingo nodded once, then turned and walked back into the mist.
His footsteps were soft, fading.
And Kael stood there long after he was gone, soaked and unmoving, fingers curled around the envelope like it was the last thread connecting him to a world he'd buried.
He didn't go home right away.
He sat beneath the broken dome, on a crumbling stone bench, rain dripping from his hood. He didn't open the envelope. He didn't read. He didn't cry.
He just sat.
Listening to the rhythm of the rain.
To the breath in his chest.
To the quiet ache behind his ribs.
Time passed slowly. Maybe an hour. Maybe more.
When he finally stood, the envelope was still sealed, tucked safely inside his inner pocket.
And the only sound left behind him… was silence.