siltrace

[siltrace]

Morning of Affection

The morning light crept slowly through the slits of the window blinds, casting long, golden beams across the soft wood of the bedroom floor. The air was cool and still, wrapped in the gentle silence of early dawn. Winston stirred.

His eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the quiet brightness of morning. For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure where he was—until the faint scent of jasmine and warm cedar reached him. Then it clicked. Clarissa’s home. Her bedroom.

He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of something over his shoulders. His fingers reached up, brushing against soft fabric. A blanket—folded and placed with care. Not his. Not there when he had fallen asleep.

He sat up straighter in the chair, realization dawning in his sleepy eyes. She had placed it there.

His gaze drifted to the bed just beside him. Clarissa lay facing the other way, still curled under her own blanket, her breath slow and steady. One hand rested near her cheek, the other barely peeking from under the fabric. She was fast asleep, her expression completely peaceful—more peaceful than he’d seen her in a long time. Winston didn’t move for a long while.

He just sat there, letting the moment settle over him. There was something in watching her like that—vulnerable, soft, at ease—that struck something quiet inside him. This was not the poised, composed rector or the controlled, elegant figure he often saw in meetings and social circles.

This was simply Clarissa. Real, human. Healing, slowly.

And she had noticed. She had seen him asleep, probably cold, and decided to do something about it. Winston smiled faintly to himself.

He leaned back into the chair, wrapping the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders, like a quiet thank-you. He didn’t want to wake her. Not yet. Let her rest. Let her have this morning peace a little longer.

Instead, he reached for the book on the nightstand—One Thousand and One Nights, still folded open where he left off—and quietly returned to Scheherazade’s tale, his eyes flicking back to Clarissa every so often. Just to check. Just to watch over her a little longer.

Clarissa stirred gently under the soft warmth of her blanket, her fingers twitching slightly as the morning light filtered through the curtains. A quiet sigh escaped her lips as her eyes blinked open, adjusting to the calm glow of daybreak.

There was a moment—one of those slow, sleepy stretches between sleep and wakefulness—where she didn’t move, didn’t think, just let herself exist in the quiet. Then her gaze shifted slightly.

Winston.

He was there, right beside the bed, still seated in the armchair, a blanket draped over his shoulders. The same blanket she had quietly wrapped around him last night before crawling back into bed. He looked peaceful, completely at ease, flipping slowly through the pages of her copy of One Thousand and One Nights, his eyes darting occasionally toward her—watching over her in silence.

She blinked again, slower this time, and her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Winston...”

His eyes lifted instantly from the book, a soft smile forming across his face as he placed a silk ribbon between the pages and closed the book. “Hey,” he said, warm and calm. “Good morning.”

Clarissa shifted gently onto her back, then up to her elbows.

Her hair was slightly tousled, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but she looked rested���less weighed down.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep. “A while,” he replied. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked... peaceful.”

Clarissa lowered her gaze for a second, almost shy. “I didn’t mean to keep you here all night.”

“I stayed because I wanted to,” he said simply. “And I’m glad I did.”

There was a pause. Comfortable, unhurried. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. Clarissa ran a hand through her hair slowly, then glanced toward the window. “It’s morning already.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The city’s still quiet. You slept well?”

She nodded. “I think I did... better than I expected to.”

Winston didn’t press further. He just reached forward gently, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “I’m glad.”

Clarissa studied him for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between grateful, cautious, and vulnerable. Then she murmured, “Thank you… for staying.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I’m here because I care about you,” Winston replied, steady. “That’s what I want to do. Be here.” Clarissa lay back down slowly, resting her head on the pillow, her eyes still fixed on him.

“I’m still learning,” she whispered. “To let someone stay.”

“And I’m not in a rush,” Winston said, voice softer now. “You wake up at your pace, Clarissa. I’ll still be here.”

And in the quiet of the morning, without pressure or expectation, she gave him the faintest smile—small, real, and enough. Clarissa lay quietly, still adjusting to the slow rhythm of morning when Winston stood from the chair with a gentle stretch. The blanket that had kept him warm slipped slightly off his shoulders, and he folded it neatly before placing it at the foot of her bed.

He glanced at her, noticing the way her eyes followed him—curious, still soft with sleep, but more awake now. “Do you want some breakfast?” he asked, voice warm, casual. Clarissa blinked.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” Winston interrupted with a small smile. “But I want to. Something light, maybe? Toast? Eggs? Or I saw some fruit and oats in the kitchen last night.”

She hesitated. For a moment, it was clear that she was trying to figure out how to respond.

She had always done things herself—waking up to someone else making her breakfast wasn’t something she was used to.

“You’re a guest, you know,” she murmured, voice faintly teasing. Winston chuckled. “Fiancé privilege. I’m temporarily promoted to domestic guest.”

A reluctant smile curved on her lips. “Okay. Maybe something simple, then. Fruit and toast would be enough.”

Winston nodded, stepping closer and pressing a hand gently to her forehead again. “Your fever’s a little better now,” he observed.

“Good. You rest a little more, and I’ll go make us something. No arguments.”

Clarissa let her head fall back on the pillow, her eyes following him until he reached the door.

“Winston?” she called softly.

He turned, hand on the doorframe. “Thank you,” she said, barely louder than a breath. He held her gaze, the soft sincerity in her voice like a balm to every reason he came back from Kalimantan early. He gave her a slight nod, smiling gently.

“I’ll be right back.”

In the quiet of the morning, Winston moved through Clarissa’s kitchen with a calm focus, but his heart was far from steady. There was something about this—this ordinary, domestic moment—that stirred something deep inside him.

He wasn’t just making breakfast; he was doing something for her, with her, in her space. And that meant more than he could put into words. He set a few slices of bread into the toaster, then reached for the fresh strawberries he noticed in the fridge the night before. He rinsed them gently, slicing them neatly as he laid them on a small plate beside a handful of blueberries. He brewed a pot of tea, the kind he knew she liked—mild jasmine with a hint of honey—and watched as the steam curled into the sunlight pouring through the window.

Butterflies stirred in his stomach.

This wasn’t just a morning chore. It was something meaningful. The thought of her upstairs, resting—letting him be there, allowing his presence, his care—it made him feel closer to her than any words had managed so far.

He plated the toast, placed the fruit carefully, and poured two cups of tea. Every movement was gentle, mindful. There was no rush. Just quiet purpose. As he reached for a small tray to carry everything up, he paused for a second, fingers gripping the edge.

He let out a slow breath. This was the beginning of something real. No grand gesture, no sparkling lights—just jasmine tea, sliced fruit, and toast on a tray. And yet, to him, it felt like everything.

Winston balanced the tray carefully in his hands, the quiet clink of porcelain the only sound breaking the early morning calm. As he made his way up the stairs, his heart beat a little faster—not out of nervousness, but something softer, deeper. Something like hope.

When he reached the bedroom, the door was still slightly ajar. A pale wash of morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a serene glow over the room. Clarissa was no longer asleep, but she hadn't moved much either.

She sat against the headboard, wrapped in the comforter, hair slightly tousled, eyes still clouded with sleep. She looked at him, surprised but softened, when she noticed the tray in his hands.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice quiet and still hoarse from sleep. “I know,” Winston said, smiling gently as he walked closer, “but I wanted to.”

He placed the tray carefully on the bedside table and began arranging everything within her reach.

Clarissa watched him in silence—his movements calm, his expression kind, his presence… steady. “I made jasmine tea. And fruit. Toast too. Not the fanciest, but I promise I was careful,” he said with a touch of humor, trying to lighten the moment.

Clarissa let out a soft laugh, almost reluctant. “You remembered the tea?”

“Of course,” he replied. “You mentioned it once, in passing. That’s more than enough.”

She looked down at the food, then back at him—this man who had entered her life so unexpectedly, now standing here like he belonged. She felt something strange twist inside her chest. Not pain, not guilt. Something… unfamiliar.

“Thank you, Winston. Really.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, not too close. Just near enough to show he was here, but not to press. “Eat what you can,” he said softly. “You need something warm in your system. Then you can rest again. Or we can talk. Or not."

"Whatever feels okay for you.”

Clarissa nodded. She picked up a piece of toast, broke off a corner. She chewed slowly, not from lack of hunger—but the weight of the moment was something she hadn’t expected to feel this early in the day.

And Winston—he sat quietly beside her, sipping his tea, not watching her too intently. Just being there. It wasn’t a grand act of love. But it was something better. Steady, patient, quiet devotion. And for someone like Clarissa—who had always carried the world alone—this, perhaps, was the loudest declaration of care she’d ever known.

Clarissa ate in quiet, unrushed bites—her body still a little heavy from the fever, her mind lighter somehow, though she couldn’t quite explain why.

Winston didn’t fill the silence with questions. He didn’t pry. He simply remained, his presence grounding, like gravity itself decided to take human form and stay beside her.

After a few moments, she placed the last piece of toast back on the plate, taking a sip of the tea he had brewed. “It’s perfect,” she murmured, voice softer than before. “Just the right amount of sugar.”

Winston looked at her, a small smile forming as he watched her settle more comfortably. “I’m glad,” he said.

“You looked like you needed something sweet this morning.”

Clarissa didn’t respond right away, only looked at him—really looked at him. The clean shirt he’d changed into, the way his hair was still a little messy from the night spent in the armchair, the quiet crease of concern between his brows that hadn’t quite gone away. And then it dawned on her: he didn’t sleep in his own bed last night. He stayed. All night.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said gently, guilt brushing the edge of her tone.

“I know,” Winston replied, leaning forward slightly to take the tray from her lap. “But I wanted to.”

There was no hesitation in his words—no expectation either. Just care. Just truth. He set the tray on the table and turned back to her. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Instead, he reached out slowly, waiting for any sign of resistance, and then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of his fingers—gentle, reverent.

Her breath caught slightly. She hadn’t been touched like that in a long time—not with pressure, or desire, but with tenderness. “You’re warm again,” he said quietly. “Better than last night. That’s a good sign.”

Clarissa nodded. The weight of her body still rested against the pillows, but something in her chest felt lighter.

“Thank you, Winston,” she whispered. “For last night. For breakfast. For staying.”

He smiled, a warm, boyish kind of smile that reached all the way to his eyes. Then, with slow caution, he brought her hand into his. Just their fingers, brushing gently, folding together.

No demands. Just a silent offer to remain.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “But I’m here. If you ever need someone to lean on—even if just for a morning tea.”

Clarissa looked down at their hands, then up again at him. Her heart, still bruised and cautious, beat a little differently this time. Unsure. But open. She gave his hand a squeeze. “Okay,” she said. “Then stay a little longer.”

Clarissa leaned back against the pillows, the teacup now empty in her hands, and her gaze turned toward the window as soft daylight filtered through the sheer curtains. The quiet between her and Winston had grown comfortable now—no longer burdened by the weight of unspoken things. She was still recovering, but something in her chest didn’t feel as heavy this morning.

Winston cleared his throat softly beside her, breaking the stillness.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he said, cautious but calm. Clarissa turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. “What is it?”

He hesitated—not because he doubted her, but because he didn’t want to startle her with too much too soon. Still, he believed in honesty. That had always been his way.

“My mother asked a question yesterday,” he said finally. “Melissa.”

Clarissa tilted her head, a small smile tugging the corners of her lips.

“What kind of question?”

“She asked whether we’ve talked about… living together,” he said, his voice gentle. “After the engagement, of course. Not out of pressure, more like… suggestion. She thought it might help us know each other better.”

Clarissa blinked. Her eyes didn’t widen, but her expression became still, thoughtful. She set the cup down on the tray before speaking. “I see.”

“I told her we haven’t talked about it yet,” Winston added quickly. “And that we’d only do whatever feels right for you. For both of us.”

Clarissa nodded slowly, then exhaled a quiet breath. She looked away, not out of avoidance, but to gather the words carefully. “I could,” she said after a moment. “Maybe. I just… not this fast.”

Winston gave her the softest of smiles, reassuring.

She looked back at him and added, “Maybe in a month or so. Once the work settles a bit, and once I feel like I can breathe without looking over my shoulder. It’s not that I don’t want to try—it’s just… I’m not ready yet.”

He nodded, never breaking eye contact. “Clarissa, you don’t owe anyone speed. You don’t have to rush your healing or your pace to match someone else’s expectations. I’m just glad you’re willing to consider it.

There was a long pause, filled with quiet understanding.

“I appreciate you telling me,” Clarissa said softly. “And tell Melissa thank you… but maybe just give me a little more time.”

“I will,” Winston said with warmth. “And when that time comes, whether it’s a month or more—just say the word.”

She gave him a small, grateful smile and reached for his hand again. It was the quiet kind of gesture that said everything she didn’t say out loud: 𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

Clarissa glanced at the clock beside her bed, then turned her gaze toward Winston who was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching her with that quiet gentleness of his. She rubbed her eyes, the remnants of sleep still lingering on her face, beforea sking softly,

“What time is it? I need to be at the campus this afternoon… there’s a meeting I can’t miss.”

Winston frowned, his concern evident in his expression. “You really should rest more. You’re still warm,” he said, touching her hand again briefly.

"I know,” she murmured, pushing herself up to sit properly. “But this one I can’t skip. I’ll be fine. It’s not too long.” Winston didn’t argue further. Instead, he shifted gears. “I’ll be at the campus too later. I’ve got a class to teach. Want to go together?” he offered, casually yet with a subtle undertone of care.

Clarissa looked at him, surprised. “Really? You’re teaching today?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just one lecture. I thought I’d swing by a little early, actually. So if you’re okay with it, we can head there together.”

She gave a slight nod, brushing her hair back from her face. “Okay,” she agreed. “That’ll work.”

Winston stood and stretched his arms slightly, then asked, “Mind if I take a quick shower and get changed here? I brought clothes.”

Clarissa blinked for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead. You know where everything is.”

“Thanks,” he said, leaning down just a little to press a brief kiss on her forehead—then caught himself midway and instead just brushed a reassuring hand along her arm. “I’ll be quick,” he added, and made his way toward the guest bathroom with the ease of someone slowly being accepted as part of a home.

Clarissa watched him go, her chest filled with a quiet, strange warmth. Not love, perhaps not yet. But trust, presence, and comfort—things she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Winston stepped quietly into Clarissa’s bedroom after finishing his shower in the guest bathroom, his steps light in case she was still resting. But the moment he entered, he froze mid-step.

Clarissa stood in front of her bed, her damp hair clinging to her neck and shoulders, a towel in her hands as she tried to dry it. She wore a silk satin mini dress—elegant, simple, probably her regular home attire—but the sight caught him off guard.

She hadn’t heard him at first, focused on her routine, until she finally noticed his presence. Her eyes widened slightly, startled. Winston immediately looked away, clearing his throat, flustered.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in. I thought you were dressed.”

Clarissa blinked, her hand tightening slightly around the towel before she offered a small, awkward smile. “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to be back that quick.”

The air between them was quiet but not tense. Just new—tentative, like the space between them was slowly learning to be shared. Winston stepped a little closer, his voice gentler now. “Sit at your dressing table,” he said, pointing toward the vanity across the room.

“Let me help. I saw your dryer on the counter."

Clarissa raised a brow, surprised by his offer, but said nothing. She walked over and sat obediently, still holding the towel lightly at the ends of her hair. Winston plugged in the dryer, testing the heat on his palm before gently beginning to work through her damp locks with one hand and the dryer in the other.

“You can do your skincare now,” he said with a small smile. “You’re hands-free.”

Clarissa let out a soft giggle, almost involuntarily. It was sweet, like a drop of honey in tea. “How do you know about that?”

Winston smiled, eyes focused on her hair. “I pay attention. I listen,” he said casually. “And Melissa always told me skin prep is sacred. You don’t interrupt a woman doing it, you support her so she doesn’t skip it.”

Clarissa laughed quietly again, pulling out her toner and creams. “Your mother’s a wise woman.”

“She is,” he agreed. “And she’d be thrilled to know I’ve finally dried someone else’s hair besides my sister’s cat.”

Clarissa chuckled again, a bit more freely this time, and as he worked through her hair with careful attention, a soft warmth settled in the space between them.

As Winston continued drying her hair, the soft hum of the hairdryer filled the room, but his mind was louder than the machine in his hands. Clarissa sat gracefully before the mirror, her skin glowing from the moisture of freshly washed hair and the light dab of her skincare.

The silky mini dress she wore clung delicately to her form, revealing more of her bare shoulders and legs than he’d ever seen before. It wasn’t inappropriate—it was intimate. Real. A glimpse of Clarissa in her own world, her private space, where the polished public figure gave way to a quiet, vulnerable woman at home.

He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how much he was seeing her not just as his fiancée, but as a woman: soft, strong, and impossibly graceful even in such a quiet moment. The dress, the bare skin, the trust to let him in—this wasn’t a scenario she was used to, he could tell. She carried herself with that same gentle composure, but the slight blush on her cheek when he entered earlier, the subtle tension in her posture, it spoke of unfamiliarity. Even with Harvey, or Christian during her weakest hours, he doubted she ever shared this kind of proximity in such a tender, domestic setting. This was a first. A quiet, unspoken first.

“How do you like the heat, Clarissa?” he asked, his voice low, almost cautious—gentle enough to keep the balance between care and awareness of her boundaries. Clarissa glanced at him through the reflection in the mirror. Their eyes met, her gaze soft, open, and unexpectedly calm. She offered a small smile.

“Okay, Winston,” she replied, her voice just above a whisper. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just gratitude for the hair drying. It was for his presence. For handling her with such care. For staying within the lines, even when the intimacy of the moment gave every opportunity to cross them. And in that space—warm with the hum of the dryer, the scent of tea still lingering faintly in the air, and Clarissa’s trust so delicately handed over—Winston realized something: He was falling in love not with her idea, not with the image of Clarissa Madhava. But with her—in her silence, in her strength, and in her quiet vulnerability.

Clarissa sat quietly as the warm air of the hairdryer brushed against her damp hair. The moment was unfamiliar—soft, domestic, and somehow delicate. Her eyes followed Winston’s reflection in the mirror.

He stood behind her, focused and gentle, his fingers occasionally brushing strands of her hair away from her face with an ease that made her chest tighten—not from discomfort, but from something far more tender.

She wasn’t used to this. Not the act itself, but the feeling that came with it. The quiet presence of someone tending to her not out of obligation or expectation, but simply because they wanted to. Christian had helped her once—when her legs wouldn’t support her and grief left her broken—but even that moment hadn’t held the same weight as this. That was necessity. Survival. This was... care. And closeness.

Not even Harvey had ever seen her like this—fresh out of the shower, skin bare, hair undone, vulnerable and without the shield of perfect outfits and polished words. There had always been a space she didn’t let anyone in, a room in herself she kept locked for safety. But now, here she was, letting someone inside, and it wasn’t frightening. It was strange, yes. But not frightening.

Clarissa’s gaze lowered briefly, catching sight of Winston’s hand adjusting the heat settings, his other resting lightly on the edge of the vanity. He was respectful, measured, never once overstepping—even when the boundaries felt like they were blurring on their own.

That restraint, that quiet reverence, made her feel something she hadn’t in a long time: safe.

Her fingers moved carefully as she applied her serum, and then her moisturizer. She could feel him watching—not in a way that made her shrink back, but in a way that made her feel seen. It wasn’t about her appearance, or the way the silk hugged her frame. It was something deeper. Her—just her.

And for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to be seen.

As Clarissa applied the final touches to her makeup—a light dab of powder, a subtle stroke of lipstick—Winston turned off the hairdryer, setting it gently on the table. The room settled into a quiet hum of intimacy, soft and comforting. She was about to reach for her hairbrush when Winston stopped her with a gentle touch on her wrist.

“Let me,” he said, voice low but calm.

Clarissa raised a brow in surprise, but didn’t argue. Instead, she handed him the brush and sat back, watching him through the mirror with a curious softness in her gaze. Winston moved behind her again, slowly brushing her hair with care and precision, untangling each strand like he was handling fine silk. She had thick, straight hair that flowed easily under the bristles, and he admired how effortlessly elegant she looked, even like this—at home, quiet, without an audience.

“You really shouldn’t have washed your hair last night, Clarissa,” he murmured, brushing slowly. “Especially with a fever. It’s not good for you.”

Clarissa glanced at him in the mirror, a little amused, a little stubborn. “It wouldn’t make sense to come to campus looking like I haven’t showered in days. What would people think?”

Winston chuckled softly, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I think they’d understand if you weren’t at your best while sick.”

She smirked, almost fondly. “You clearly don’t understand how ruthless my colleagues can be.”

“Oh, I do,” he said. “But I still think you’re too hard on yourself.”

Clarissa said nothing, but her eyes lingered on him a second longer. There was something disarming about the way he treated her—like she didn’t need to be perfect, like she didn’t have to keep performing. Like being sick, being undone, being just her was enough.

Once he finished brushing her hair, he gently set the brush down. “Alright,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll give you some space to get dressed.”

She nodded, quietly grateful, and stood to make her way to the dressing room. Just before entering, she glanced back at him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Winston just smiled, hands in his pockets now, watching her disappear behind the door—still in awe of how natural this all felt, how quietly significant these small moments were.

It didn’t take long before the door to the dressing room creaked open, and Clarissa stepped out, fully dressed and composed—yet effortlessly elegant. A crisp white shirt tucked neatly into high-waisted dark jeans, paired with low heels that gave her posture more grace.

Draped over one arm was a black blazer, adding just the right amount of formality to the look. In her other hand, she carried a sleek black tote with her laptop and documents inside, organized as always.

Winston, who had been waiting near the hallway, looked up and paused for a moment. There was something about her—clean, simple lines, quiet confidence, eyes still a little tired from the fever yet carrying that sharpness he’d come to admire.

“You look beautiful,” he said warmly, genuine in every syllable. “Professional. Casual. But somehow still… stunning.”

Clarissa offered a soft smile at his words, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she said, her voice still carrying that gentle tone from the morning. “I’m ready if you are.”

Winston nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

He reached for her tote bag, gently offering to carry it, and she didn’t resist. With that, they stepped out of the house together. The morning air was fresh, a soft angerang breeze lifting the edge of her blazer as they walked to the car. It felt easy—no rush, no pressure. Just two people, side by side, finding their rhythm in this new part of their lives.

During the entire ride to campus, the atmosphere in the car was quiet—but not heavy. Clarissa was deeply focused on her tablet, scrolling through documents, responding to messages, and reviewing her meeting notes. Her brows furrowed with the kind of silent intensity Winston had grown familiar with.

It wasn’t that she was ignoring him; it was just who she was when she had something on her plate—fully present, fully responsible.

Winston didn’t interrupt. He leaned back in his seat, watching the city pass by through the window, respecting her space.

“Thank you,” she said, just enough for him to hear.

They walked side by side through the pathway lined with greenery, exchanging light conversation—nothing too deep, just comfortable words about the weather, how the campus had changed, small anecdotes from the last lecture Winston gave. Clarissa chuckled lightly at one of his remarks, but her focus was already shifting toward her agenda.

When they reached the faculty wing, she paused in front of her office. “I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Clarissa said softly.

Winston nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Take your time.”

She gave him a final look—grateful, a little apologetic—and disappeared behind the door of her room.

As Winston turned down the corridor to make his way to his own classroom, a familiar voice called out to him.

“Bro,” Vincent called, falling into step beside him. “What’s with you and the rector lately?”

Winston raised an eyebrow but kept walking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Vincent grinned. “First, you made her fall—literally—and now you two are arriving together like a couple. Did you manage to actually go out with her after that? What's going on?”

Winston let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head, keeping his tone cool.

“Something like that.”

Vincent narrowed his eyes, nudging him. “Don’t ‘something like that’ me. That’s 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘥𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘢, man. You’re not just tutoring her in Excel sheets, are you?”

Winston smiled but didn’t give a direct answer.

“Let’s just say… things changed.”

Vincent whistled low under his breath. “I need to hear the full story. But after class.”

“After class,” Winston agreed, pushing the door open to his room. Still smiling to himself.

Winston stepped into his lecture hall, the buzz of early students filtering in and filling the room with energy. He greeted them with his usual calm and welcoming tone, but his mind drifted—just briefly—back to Clarissa.

She was somewhere down the hall, conducting a meeting, holding the room the way she always did—with quiet authority and understated grace. Even now, even sick, she was fully herself. Composed. Strong. Beautiful.

He knew whatever this was between them—this slow unfolding of trust, this cautious step into something new—it wasn’t simple. Not with her past. Not with her pace. But that was exactly why he was here. Because he saw her for who she was, and he had no intention of rushing her healing or interrupting her path forward.

It wasn’t about the chase anymore. It was about staying.

And so, while Vincent pestered him with questions and the classroom filled with noise and notes, Winston waited—just as he promised he would.

Not just for the end of Clarissa’s meeting. But for her, whenever she was ready.

END.

[siltrace]

Cutting The Distance

The arrangement of being a part-time lecturer was never just about convenience for Winston—it was about intention. The flexibility it gave him was something he cherished, not just for academic balance, but more so for his responsibilities in the family’s mining and resource ventures.

His work had recently brought him to Kalimantan for a few days—inspecting new sites, reviewing proposals, and meeting with the ground team. It was productive, no doubt. But through every meeting and every check-in, one thought persisted quietly at the back of his mind: Clarissa.

Though they had agreed to take their engagement slow—built more on getting to know each other deeply rather than diving into a romance—they had quickly grown used to each other's quiet presence.

Two days apart might seem trivial to most, but for Winston, the distance felt noticeable, even sharp. Clarissa had her own responsibilities too: between administrative work at the university, planning for future international conferences, and her travels between Bali and Jakarta, she had little room to breathe, let alone to be doted on He knew better than to get in her way.

He didn’t text much during her work hours, didn’t expect long calls at night. But today, after wrapping up things in Kalimantan a little earlier than planned, he chose to take the evening flight back. It was almost 9 PM by the time he arrived in Jakarta, but that didn’t matter.

Now, he stood in front of her door—one hand in his coat pocket, the other pressing the bell with a quiet firmness.

There was something humble and gentle in the way he waited, his suitcase placed neatly by his side. He could’ve gone home first, unpacked, rested—but no. He wanted to see her first. Even just to say good night.

It was quiet.

A single warm ceiling light above his head lit the entrance modestly. He waited.

One minute passed. Then two. Still no answer. He checked his phone to make sure he didn’t miss a message.

He debated whether he should press the bell again, but before he could, he heard soft footsteps approaching from inside. The lock clicked, the door cracked open slowly, and there she was. Clarissa stood in front of him in a simple oversized sweatshirt, her hair tied loosely back, her eyes just the slightest bit puffy—clearly exhausted. But to Winston, she looked just as graceful and lovely as always.

She blinked once, then recognized him.

“…Winston?” her voice was soft, a little surprised.

He offered her a warm, tired smile. “Hi,” he said, his voice as calm and tender as his presence. “I landed a little while ago. Thought I’d come see you before heading home.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, perhaps because she wasn’t expecting him. Then a small smile tugged on her lips—quiet, but genuine. She opened the door wider.

“You must be tired.”

“A little,” he admitted. “But mostly, I just missed you.”

Clarissa stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in, the air between them gentle and unforced. Just two people finding their way, step by step, through the beginning of something tender and real.

"I didn't expect you to be home this early. It’s rare," Clarissa said, her voice soft as she leaned slightly against the edge of the door, watching him enter.

"Really?" Winston replied with a faint smile, unbothered but intrigued.

Clarissa returned his smile—subtle, not too wide, but warm. She stepped aside as Winston made his way in, already familiar with the path to her living room. He removed his coat and draped it over the side of the couch, settling in comfortably, yet with the respect of a guest. She closed the door quietly behind them and followed at her own pace.

"Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?" she offered, her tone gentle, almost like a habit of kindness she didn’t think much of.

Winston looked up at her. "Tea, please. Whichever tea you like," he answered. His words were light, but it was clear that he valued anything she'd prepare.

Without another word, Clarissa gave him a small nod and disappeared into the kitchen. Her steps were unhurried. The kitchen was quiet, except for the soft clink of cups and the low hum of the kettle heating water.

She moved around with practiced efficiency—selecting a jasmine blend from the tin and placing two tea bags into simple ceramic cups.

Though she wasn’t one to speak when silence worked just fine, there was a calm, nearly comforting air about her. She never felt the need to fill every moment with words. Her way of showing care was in the small, precise gestures. The kind that, if someone wasn’t paying attention, they might miss.

Five minutes passed, then she returned. In both hands, she held the two cups, warm and lightly steaming. She placed them gently on the coasters she’d already prepared on the living room table.

"Thank you," Winston said quietly, taking one of the cups into his hands. He let the warmth soak into his palms before taking a sip. "How are you?"

Clarissa took her seat across from him, folding one leg under the other. She cleared her throat lightly. "I guess all is good," she said, her voice thoughtful.

"Work is done. I had a few meetings today, mostly to close up the planning side. Everything’s been sorted out pretty well."

Winston nodded slowly. "I’m glad to hear that. Sounds like it’s all under control." He paused, then added with genuine interest, “And the campus, how’s that coming along?”

She offered a brief, composed smile. "Demanding. But manageable. We’re finalizing schedules for the next quarter." Then she glanced back at him. "How’s your business there?"

Her tone was careful—not formal, but not overly familiar either. It was a small step forward, like she was still figuring out how much space she could give. He leaned back into the couch, crossing one leg casually.

"It needed more supervision than I’d expected. There were a few delays with the logistics and some crew rotation issues. But nothing too serious. I think they’ll get it sorted by the end of the month, hopefully sooner."

Clarissa nodded.

"I’m happy to hear that," she said softly. "It’s a relief." There was a pause—not uncomfortable, but still. The kind of silence that follows when two people are still learning how to move around each other's presence. But in that quiet space, the warmth of the tea and the flicker of the soft lighting made it feel like home—maybe not entirely yet.

Winston’s eyes wandered subtly around the room as he took another sip of his tea, letting the warmth ground him in the quiet of the evening.

It was then that he noticed something different—something missing. The large photograph of Harvey and Clarissa that once hung prominently on the wall was no longer there. Its absence was immediately felt. The empty patch of wall, slightly discolored in contrast to the rest of the paint, gave it away.

He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered just a little too long, tracing the faint rectangle left behind. It wasn’t meant to be noticed, but Clarissa had always been attuned to the quiet shifts in a room, in people.

She followed his eyes, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Then she spoke, softly, not out of obligation, but out of clarity.

“I took it off,” Clarissa said, confirming what he had silently deduced. Her voice was calm, but something faintly vulnerable lingered beneath it. “I just... needed a space to breathe. A start to move forward.”

Winston didn’t rush to respond. He looked at her with gentle understanding, not trying to fill the silence with reassurance, but waiting until his words would feel honest.

“Hey,” he finally said, setting his cup down and leaning slightly forward, his tone reassuring but respectful. “It’s okay. I know you know what’s best for you.”

He glanced briefly again at the smaller framed photos still placed on the shelf—moments frozen in time, quiet memories that she hadn’t let go of just yet. He respected that too.

“Whether you had that hanging still or not,” he continued, “that’s fine. You know your pace, Clarissa. I’m not here to erase anything. I’m just... walking beside you.”

His words weren’t grand or poetic. But they carried weight, because they were real—spoken with no expectation, only quiet support. And Clarissa, though still processing everything in her own way, gave him the faintest nod, as if to say thank you without speaking at all.

The room fell into a stillness that wasn't uncomfortable, just delicate—like the hush after a long day. Clarissa was about to reach for her tea again when a voice echoed softly in her memory.

“Have you eaten dinner?” 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘺’𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦.

It came out of nowhere—unbidden but familiar, a ghost of routine and tenderness that used to color her evenings. Her hand paused mid-air, and her eyes blinked slowly, like she was trying to steady herself. That question used to mean he was nearby, that he cared whether she'd eaten, even if he was late or tired himself.

But the man across from her now wasn’t Harvey.

Winston noticed the shift in her expression. A flicker—quick, but there. He didn’t push, didn’t ask. He simply sat quietly, giving her the space to return to the present. She finally lowered her hand, curling her fingers into her lap. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, steady but soft.

“No,” she answered—not to the ghost in her head, but to the man sitting right in front of her.

Winston smiled gently, knowingly. “Then let’s fix that.” He didn’t try to replace anyone. He didn’t try to offer her what she’d lost. He just stood, calmly, and walked toward the kitchen with ease.

“Do you have anything to cook? Or should I order us something?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

Clarissa let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding—maybe from the weight of the memory, maybe from relief that Winston never rushed her grief.

She stood slowly. “Let’s see what I’ve got.”

As Winston opened the fridge and scanned its contents, he glanced over his shoulder—and then really looked at her. Clarissa was leaning slightly against the kitchen counter, her movements slower than usual.

Her skin was a shade paler under the kitchen lights, her eyes dimmed with the kind of fatigue that goes beyond tiredness. She was trying to keep up, trying to be present, but Winston saw through it. He closed the fridge gently and turned to face her, concern softening his features.

“Clarissa,” he said quietly, not alarmed, just attentive, “are you really okay?”

She blinked, then gave a small smile—one of those instinctive ones people give when they’re used to saying 𝘐’𝘮 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 even when they’re not. “Just a little tired, I guess. It’s been a long week.” Winston stepped closer, not too close, but close enough to offer something steadier than words. His voice lowered, kind. “You look pale. Have you eaten at all today?”

Clarissa hesitated for a moment before answering, her gaze dropping briefly. “Only coffee and a sandwich earlier this afternoon. I’ve been in meetings non-stop.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Okay. Then let’s not bother with cooking. You sit down. I’ll order something warm and easy—soup, maybe?” His tone wasn’t pressing, but steady, grounding.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a gentle brow. “No arguments. Let me take care of you a little. That’s all.”

Clarissa finally gave in with a soft sigh and a nod, walking over to the sofa again. Winston watched her for a second longer—quietly thankful that she let her guard down enough to show her exhaustion. Trust didn’t come in grand gestures; sometimes, it looked just like this.

He took out his phone and began scrolling through a delivery app, but his eyes kept glancing at her—still making sure. Just being there, as promised.

"Would mushroom soup be okay for you?" Winston asked gently as he scrolled through the food delivery app. His eyes flicked up from the screen to study her carefully. "Any allergies I should know about?"

Clarissa, curled slightly into the corner of the couch, her legs folded under her, gave a faint shake of her head. "No, Winston. That sounds okay."

He gave her a small smile, one that lingered with quiet affection. “Alright then. I’m ordering one for you.”

After placing the order, he set his phone down on the coffee table and moved closer, his attention shifting completely toward her now. There was something in the way her body leaned—tired, not just physically but deeply worn.

Without another word, Winston gently reached out.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, and then carefully placed the back of his hand against her neck, and then her forehead. The warmth shocked him. “You’re burning, Clarissa,” he said softly, brows knitting in concern.

“You have a fever. How did you even manage to get to campus today?”

She paused for a moment, as if trying to figure out the easiest answer. Her voice came out quieter than before, slightly raspy. “I didn’t. I stayed at home all day.”

That only made his concern grow. He pulled his hand back, but his gaze stayed on her. “And you said nothing about it to me?” Clarissa looked away, lips pressed together, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to explain.

“You were in Kalimantan,” she replied simply. “It wasn’t something urgent. I thought I could manage.”

Winston shook his head slowly, not in frustration, but in disbelief. His voice dropped, calm but firm. “Clarissa… I’ve told you—it’s okay to tell me these things. I want to know.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hand resting near hers on the sofa cushion. “I’m your fiancé now. That means something to me. You won’t ever be a burden to me. If I need to fly home early, I will. If I need to show up at your door with soup and medicine, I’ll be there.”

Her eyes flickered up to his, and he could see it—just beneath the surface of her calm demeanor, the hesitation, the quiet endurance, the fear of being too much. “I’m not trying to replace anything or anyone,” he added, his tone softer now. “But I need you to know that taking care of you—worrying about you—it’s not a weight. It’s something I want to do.”

Clarissa didn’t respond right away, but something in her shoulders loosened, a wall slightly lowered. She gave him the smallest nod, a silent gesture of surrender—not to weakness, but to trust.

“I’ll let you know next time,” she said quietly.

Winston smiled, warm and reassuring. “Good. Starting tonight.”

Winston had always known Clarissa as a woman of poise and calm control—always composed, always collected. But standing there now, in the quiet of her home, he saw something different. A pattern.

He thought back over the months: how she never asked for help, how she carried burdens alone, how she barely mentioned if she was unwell, how she stood at the center of chaos and responsibility without flinching. It struck him deeply.

There was a kind of strength in her silence, but it also carried a loneliness that pained him. She had always been independent—resolutely, perhaps stubbornly so. And now, watching her fold quietly into the couch, pale and burning with fever, something inside Winston twisted.

She had never let anyone see her like this.

“You need to rest now,” he said gently, standing and reaching out his hand toward her. “Come on. Let’s go to the bedroom—you need to lie down.”

Clarissa looked hesitant. “But…” she began, as if she was going to protest out of habit. But she stopped herself. Her eyes flickered down, and then back up to meet his. She gave him a small nod. “Okay.”

Without saying more, she stood and turned toward the staircase, her steps slow and unsure. Winston followed her up to the second floor, quiet and respectful. He understood—this wasn’t about the bedroom. This was about trust. About letting someone past the emotional barricade she’d built so meticulously.

At the top of the stairs, she paused in front of a door and placed her hand on the knob. She hesitated, just for a second, then pushed it open.

The room was minimalistic, but warm. White walls, wood accents, a soft curtain that let in just enough of the city’s dimmed evening light. It smelled faintly of lavender and something he couldn’t name—maybe just her. There were books stacked on a nearby shelf, a single framed photo of her family by the bedside, and the bed itself was neatly made with white linen sheets.

She stepped inside and awkwardly sat on the edge of the bed, as if unsure of her own presence in this moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, her voice just above a whisper. “I’ve never let anyone beyond the first floor. Not even… not even Harvey.”

Winston paused by the door, struck by the weight of her words. He was about to say something, but before he could, she added softly, “Do you want me to give you space?” he asked, taken slightly aback, not wanting her to feel cornered.

She shook her head slowly. “It’s okay,” she said after a pause. “I did it once. With Christian… after Harvey passed. I couldn’t walk that day. He carried me upstairs.”

Her eyes found his again, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen them. “You’re the second.”

Winston’s chest tightened. He walked over slowly and knelt in front of her.

“Then I’ll honor that,” he said gently. “Thank you for trusting me.”

She nodded, then lay back on the bed slowly, her breathing still light and shallow. Winston adjusted the pillow behind her, tucked a blanket over her gently, then pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down beside her.

He didn’t speak again, just watched her fall asleep. And in that quiet, he realized: this—her trust, her presence, even her fevered silence—meant more than any vow or ritual. She was letting him in, piece by piece. And he would be there for every moment of it.

Winston sat quietly by her bedside, watching her breathing steady into sleep. Her face, usually composed and strong, now looked softer in rest—unguarded. As the city hummed faintly outside, a thousand thoughts crossed his mind, none louder than the quiet ache in his chest.

He knew.

He knew Clarissa wasn’t doing this because she was fully ready, not yet. She wasn’t letting him in because her heart had completely healed or because her grief had magically disappeared. No. He understood that much.

She was trying.

And maybe that was what hurt him the most—and yet moved him deeply too. This wasn't about romance or comfort. It was about survival. It was about her taking the next step, not because she wanted to rush ahead, but because something inside her told her she had to try.

That maybe, just maybe, if she didn’t take one step forward, she would stay in the same place forever.

He looked around the room again. The walls were clean and simple, but the absence of certain things spoke louder than presence. There were no traces of Harvey here. Nothing personal, nothing sentimental. Just the quiet echo of a space that had long been untouched by anyone else’s presence. He understood what that meant.

Clarissa was trying to move forward—not out of eagerness, but necessity. And by inviting him here, by lying down in front of him, fevered and exhausted, she was offering something far more sacred than affection. She was offering trust. A test of it. A fragile branch reaching out from a wounded place.

Winston leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her.

He whispered quietly, almost to himself, "𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺—𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺."

And deep in his heart, he knew: love isn’t just about someone close. Sometimes, it’s about holding space—without demanding anything back. Winston quietly stood and walked to the small nightstand tucked neatly beside Clarissa’s bed.

On it, just beneath her phone and a half-full glass of water, lay a worn copy of One Thousand and One Nights. The spine had softened over time, clearly read more than once. He gently picked it up, thumbing through the delicate pages until he landed on the beginning of a familiar tale—Scheherazade and Schahryar.

The room was dim, save for the warm bedside lamp casting a golden hue over her white-wooden walls. Clarissa lay still beneath the sheets, her breathing steady now. Feverish warmth still lingered on her skin when he last checked, but the rest had done her good.

He didn’t want to disturb her, not even with movement. So he sank into the lounge chair near the window, the book cradled in his hand. He read quietly, mind wandering between the ancient words and the woman resting nearby.

The tale of Scheherazade—wise, brave, selfless—felt oddly familiar in this moment. A woman who held back her own fear and pain to keep others safe. She told stories to survive, to soothe the broken heart of a king who had lost his faith in women.

Winston found the irony sinking in deeper the longer he read.

Clarissa, too, had been telling stories. Not with words, but with silence. With the way she carried herself, composed and strong. With the way she bore the pain of loss behind her steady eyes.

Her strength reminded him of Scheherazade—quiet, graceful, powerful not because she was loud, but because she endured.

Because she tried. The soft ping of his phone broke the silence—a notification from the delivery service. The food would arrive in fifteen minutes.

He bookmarked the page and glanced toward her again. She hadn’t stirred. Still resting. Still healing.

Winston exhaled slowly and looked down at the book once more. Perhaps tonight, he wouldn’t need to speak much. Perhaps his presence, this quiet waiting, was enough.

And perhaps Clarissa, though deep in sleep, would feel it too—that in this room, she was not alone anymore.

He stepped out of the bedroom as silently as he could, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The hallway carried the hush of the evening, the sort of quiet that demanded gentleness. He made his way downstairs, where the faint chime of the doorbell from earlier had signaled the arrival of their food.

At the front door, he picked up the plastic bags waiting on the welcome mat.

The rustling noise seemed too loud in the silence, so he moved quickly to the kitchen, careful not to let the sound trail upstairs. With quiet precision, Winston unpacked the containers, opening them one by one to check their condition—still warm, fragrant with the creamy aroma of mushroom soup, just as he’d promised her.

The kitchen was surprisingly full for someone who lived alone. The counters were spotless, the shelves neatly organized. Rows of spices lined a small rack, and fresh vegetables peeked out from a woven basket. A few handwritten labels on jars revealed her subtle domestic side—“cinnamon,” “cloves,” “dried chili.”

It reminded him of a conversation they'd once had, when she shyly admitted that cooking was her favorite therapy.

It made sense now, seeing all this. The order. The cleanliness. The care. The home mirrored her entirely—precise, understated, quietly elegant. But it also whispered of solitude, the kind learned and refined over time.

Winston arranged everything on a tray, poured a glass of water, and took a moment to wipe the tray edges clean. He ascended the stairs carefully, mindful of each step.

Pushing the door open gently, he saw her still asleep, her figure half-curled under the blanket.

Her face had softened. Less tense now. Less guarded. He stood there for a moment, simply watching her breathe, grateful that she trusted him enough to let him in, to let him witness this softness. He placed the tray on the nightstand, then crouched a little closer and whispered, low but audible.

"Clarissa..."

No response. He said her name again, a bit firmer. She stirred, slowly fluttering her eyes open. Her gaze found him in the soft light.

"Let’s eat first, okay?" Winston said with a gentle smile, voice laced with concern. “Then you can go back to rest.”

Clarissa blinked at him, dazed from sleep, but she nodded faintly. The warmth of his presence, the care he’d shown without a word of demand, began to nestle somewhere quietly in her chest. She sat up, slowly, as Winston reached to support her. For once, she didn’t resist the help. Not tonight.

She leaned against the headboard, propped up by the pillows Winston had quietly adjusted for her. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but she gave him a faint, appreciative smile. She looked down at the tray he had prepared—soup, toast, and a small bowl of sliced apples.

Simple. Thoughtful.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” she murmured. “I know,” Winston replied, settling beside her with the bowl of mushroom soup in hand, spoon already dipped in. “But I wanted to.”

He scooped up the first spoonful and brought it gently to her lips.

Clarissa blinked, surprised. “Winston…”

“I won’t force you,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “Just… let me take care of you. Just this once, if that’s all you can give.”

There was a brief pause between them. A pause filled not with discomfort, but with hesitation. The kind of hesitation that comes from someone who’s never allowed herself to be this vulnerable before. Not in this way. Not with someone new.

She nodded once. “Okay.”

Winston smiled faintly, gently offering the spoon again. She accepted it this time, quietly tasting the warm soup. It was good—comforting, mild, the kind of meal that soothes the body as well as the heart.

“Too salty?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, it’s good.”

He fed her another spoonful, taking his time. Between sips, Clarissa’s eyes occasionally met his. There was something unspoken in those glances. Not love—at least not yet—but a tenderness forming. A quiet acknowledgment of trust, of letting someone stay when the walls usually kept them out.

“You always do things like this for people?” she asked, her voice barely louder than the ticking of the clock nearby.

“Not for everyone,” he replied truthfully. “But for you? I will.”

Clarissa looked away for a second, as if collecting herself, then turned back to him. “I’m not used to this.”

“I know,” Winston said, feeding her again. “But I’m not asking you to get used to it overnight.”

He paused, watching her slowly chew. “I just want to be here when you need someone. That’s enough for me.”

They said nothing for a while after that. He continued feeding her, letting the silence be soft, not heavy. Her head leaned slightly toward him by the time the bowl was half-finished, her body more relaxed.

In that quiet, domestic moment, something shifted—something gentle and true. She didn’t need to say thank you. He already knew.

After several spoonfuls, Clarissa gently raised her hand to hold the bowl herself. Winston hesitated but let her, watching closely in case she needed help again. “I think I can take it from here,” she said with a small, tired smile.

He gave her a nod and leaned back slightly, still sitting beside her. “Okay. But I’m not going far.”

She took a few more bites, slower now, her body still fighting off the weariness that clung to her like fog. Once she finished, she placed the bowl on the tray, which Winston carefully took and set aside on the small table near the door.

Clarissa leaned her head back against the headboard and exhaled, long and quiet. Her eyes drifted to the ring on her finger—the one he gave her not long ago.

It still felt foreign there, heavy in meaning, delicate in emotion.

“I didn’t expect today to end this way,” she said softly. Winston turned back to her, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady. “Neither did I. But I’m glad I came home early.”

She chuckled faintly under her breath. “You flew back just for me.”

“I did,” he confirmed. “And I would again.”

There was a beat of silence between them—one not of tension, but quiet understanding.

“I’m not always going to be like this,” she murmured, her eyes still on the ceiling. “Weak. Needing help.”

Winston’s brows drew slightly, not out of frustration but a gentle kind of protest. He stood up, walked over to her side of the bed, and knelt down beside it so they were face to face.

“Clarissa,” he said, voice low, “Needing rest doesn’t make you weak. Asking for help doesn’t make you any less of who you are. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. But even the strongest need someone.”

Her eyes welled slightly. She wasn’t crying, not really—but the truth in his words nudged something deep in her. She’d been holding everything up on her own for so long—without showing the cracks.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, barely a whisper.

“I don’t know how to let someone in again.”

“I don’t need you to know how,” Winston replied. “I just need you to let me stay. That’s enough.”

Clarissa blinked, steadying herself. She slowly nodded, her gaze not leaving his. “Okay,” she breathed.

Winston gently stood, brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead, and pulled the blanket up to her shoulder. “You get more rest. I’ll clean up downstairs.”

Clarissa reached for his hand before he walked away. She didn’t say anything—just held his fingers lightly in hers for a moment. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, simple… and full of meaning

He squeezed her hand gently, then let go. “I’ll be right downstairs.”

And with that, he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him, giving her the peace she needed—knowing that when she was ready, he’d still be there.

The night deepened, silence blanketing the room like a soft veil. The only sounds were the faint rustle of leaves outside the window and the rhythmic breath of two people resting in different kinds of peace. Winston had drifted off in the chair beside her bed, his hand still gently wrapped around hers.

His head tilted slightly, resting against the edge of the bed, his expression calm—tired from travel, from care, from quiet patience.

In the middle of the night, Clarissa stirred.

Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light from the bedside lamp still left on at its lowest setting. The first thing she noticed was the warmth in her hand, the steady grip—his hand still holding hers. She turned her head and saw him there, slumped slightly, asleep in his seat. The sight pulled something gentle in her chest. Her brows lifted faintly, eyes softening. Slowly, quietly, she raised her other hand and reached out to him.

Her fingers brushed his hair gently, almost instinctively. A silent thank you.

With careful movements, Clarissa slid her hand out of his, mindful not to wake him. Winston stirred only faintly but didn’t wake. She pushed the covers off her legs and stood, her steps light across the hardwood floor as she made her way to the closet.

Opening the door, she reached for one of the folded blankets inside—a soft grey one she often kept for guests but rarely used. She held it close to her chest for a moment, breathing in deeply.

Then she returned to his side. Clarissa leaned down gently, unfolding the blanket and placing it carefully over his shoulders. She adjusted it until it rested snugly around him, tucking the edges with a tenderness that spoke more than words ever could.

Her hand lingered on his arm just a second longer, then she stepped back. For a brief moment, she watched him—this man who came back from Kalimantan just to see her, who fed her soup without asking for anything in return, who sat all night beside her without a hint of demand. Clarissa exhaled softly. She climbed back into bed, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and lay on her side, facing him.

The soft outline of his figure under the blanket was all she needed to feel something she hadn’t felt in a long time: 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦.

And then, just like that, she drifted off once more—into the quiet night that held them both.

END.

[siltrace]

Love, If It Comes

The Langfords’ arrival at the Madhava estate in Bali was marked by a quiet but undeniable weight in the air—expectation, curiosity, and perhaps, a thin layer of unspoken judgment.

After weeks of coordinating through Arya and Derek, the two families finally agreed on a date. The sun dipped low behind the lush jungle hills as the Langfords stepped out of their black vehicle, greeted by the scent of frangipani and the distant sound of gamelan music echoing softly from somewhere within the estate. The house—if it could even be called that—was more like a private temple. Ancient stone steps led into a sprawling compound of carved teak, with traditional Balinese pavilions framed by koi ponds and manicured gardens.

Arya met them at the entrance, poised as ever in a muted cream kebaya modernized with clean lines, her elegance understated yet unmistakably intentional. She bowed slightly, smiling.

“Welcome to our home,” she said warmly, her eyes flicking over each of them—Melissa with her perfectly pressed white silk blouse, Derek in a conservative grey linen suit, and Winston, sharp as ever in navy, but with an edge of nervousness hidden behind his smile.

“It’s stunning,” Melissa said genuinely, looking around. “Like something from a dream.”

“We’re so glad you could make the time,” Arya replied, gracious and practiced. “I hope the flight was smooth?”

“It was, thank you,” Derek said, adjusting his collar. “And we’ve been looking forward to this.”

As they moved past the threshold into the cool, incense-scented hallway, Kirana emerged from deeper within the home, flanked by two quiet staff members.

Her step was deliberate, her batik kaftan custom-made and dripping in labels no one asked for. She greeted the Langfords with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Melissa,” she said first, extending a hand with a touch too much ceremony. “Derek. Winston. Welcome.”

“Thank you for having us,” Melissa replied with polite warmth. Derek nodded. Winston offered a small, respectful bow, as he had researched to do. But Kirana’s eyes had already swept downward and lingered. Her gaze flitted over Melissa’s Cartier watch, Derek’s brogues, the cut of Winston’s trousers. Her lips tightened subtly, not enough to be noticed unless one was watching closely.

Of course she noticed Winston wore no local designer, no conscious nod to Balinese culture—not that she had ever worn anything with taste herself, but she fancied herself a gatekeeper of some social hierarchy no one ever officially installed her into. Ironically, the very shoes she wore—a monstrosity of bejeweled sandals imported from some gaudy boutique in Milan—clashed terribly with the batik she insisted on showcasing as “heritage couture".

But no one said a word. They never did. Not even Arya, who had grown masterful at enduring Kirana’s passive disapproval with the serenity of a woman who knew silence was power.

“Let’s move to the inner veranda,” Arya said smoothly, as if to cut the moment before it could stall. “There’s tea and some light snacks while dinner is being prepared. We’ve arranged a little something inspired by both our cultures.”

Winston glanced at her as they walked—grateful. She returned the glance with a quiet reassurance, her calm presence diffusing the brittle edges that Kirana always seemed to introduce into the room.

They passed open archways, revealing glimpses of a compound that spoke of serious, generational wealth—paintings by revered Indonesian artists, antique ceramics, sculptures older than most nations. It was, in every corner, a house that had been owned, not bought.

Lived in with lineage. The Madhava legacy.

Melissa whispered to Derek as they sat down, “You can feel it, can’t you?”

He nodded once, understanding exactly what she meant. This was no mere house; this was power dressed in civility. And yet, Winston was focused only on Clarissa—who hadn’t yet appeared.

As the staff gracefully served lemongrass tea and delicately plated tropical fruit, the Langfords settled into the wide veranda where carved wooden pillars framed a sweeping view of the garden and the slow trickle of a stone fountain. The tropical air was heavy but pleasant, stirred only by the subtle breeze that rustled through the palm fronds.

Melissa, ever the composed conversationalist, turned to Arya with a gentle smile. “And how are the children, Arya? It must still be a full house.” Arya smiled softly, the expression touching her eyes with something warm and almost nostalgic.

“They’re doing well, thank you. The twins are in their forties now—time moves too fast, I swear. Dewa is always busy—he has seven children of his own, can you believe that?”

“Seven?” Derek echoed, blinking.

Arya let out a low, amused breath. “Yes. His heart is always with the children. He’s a very hands-on father.”

“Impressive,” Melissa replied, eyebrows lifted.

“Kala just got married last week,” Arya continued, glancing at Melissa. “A quiet ceremony, just family. We welcomed another grandson from his new wife. So much joy.”

“Oh, congratulations!” Melissa said. “That’s wonderful.”

“And Clarissa—well, she’s here. Still upstairs,” Arya said, glancing toward the main house. “She got roped into a meeting. Typical. She's been buried in work lately. The restructuring in the holding company has taken most of her time. She’ll be joining us soon.”

Winston’s ears perked subtly at that, though he tried not to show it. The mention of her name sent a flicker of anticipation through him. He’d known she was here, of course. Arya had said so. But hearing that she was somewhere just above them, possibly finishing a call or still seated at her desk, grounded the moment in a reality he wasn’t quite ready for.

“And the others?” Melissa asked, sipping her tea politely.

Arya nodded. “The younger ones are mostly in university or school. Everyone’s spread out, but they come back when they can.”

“A large family,” Derek said, glancing at the gardens. “Must make for some very busy holidays.”

Arya chuckled softly. “Very loud ones, yes.”

From across the veranda, Kirana stirred her tea, saying nothing. Her perfectly arched eyebrow lifted just slightly when Dewa’s eleven children were mentioned, as though she found the number excessive and deeply unfashionable. She didn’t comment—perhaps to avoid revealing how little real parenting she’d ever been responsible for.

Winston, meanwhile, glanced once more toward the stairwell just inside the villa—wondering if Clarissa was on her way down.

Kirana might have been silent, but her thoughts were far from still.

As she stirred her tea again—more for something to do than to cool it—her eyes occasionally flicked to Melissa Langford. Everything about Melissa was understated yet pristine. The crisp linen of her white blouse, tailored precisely to fit without ever drawing attention to itself. The delicate silk scarf knotted loosely at her neck, something Kirana could swear was vintage Hermès. The way she spoke—measured, warm, with the kind of grace that didn’t need to perform.

Kirana had known the Langfords were wealthy, of course. Arya had told her enough. But now, sitting across from them in broad daylight, it hit her more sharply: they weren’t just wealthy. They were monumental. The Langfords had the kind of old money lineage that ran in the blood, that shaped the way you breathed and blinked and nodded across tables. They carried the ease of people who never had to prove a thing.

And Melissa—well, she didn’t flaunt a thing. That was the cruelest cut of all. She didn’t have to. Kirana could feel the gap between them widen with every glance. Kirana, in contrast, had spent years curating an image. It had taken her everything—her body, her youth, her charm—to even earn a place in the Madhava name. And now, in this quiet, sunlit afternoon, she realized with a bite of bitterness that the family she had once thought at the pinnacle of power and wealth was perhaps, in comparison to the Langfords, merely new money in tailored batik.

The Langfords were born of legacy: the Spencer name itself stemming from British aristocratic lines on one side, with Derek's own lineage tracing back to an East Coast American dynasty known for their winery business.

𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, Kirana thought, the inside of her smile hardening. No wonder Melissa doesn’t have to raise her voice or flaunt her bags. She doesn’t need to remind people who she is.

Even Derek exuded effortless elegance. And Winston—well, Kirana had heard of him before today, but she hadn’t expected someone quite so composed, so quietly self-assured. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was with the confidence of someone who had never been interrupted.

She hated to admit it, but as she sat there, watching Melissa ask about Arya’s children with genuine interest and warmth—Kirana felt it like a slow bruise: her usual tools wouldn’t work here. Not charm. Not showmanship.

Not subtle putdowns disguised as compliments.

This wasn’t a family she could impress. This was a family she could only hope to keep up with. Her ego was hurt, very much.

Clarissa finally emerged from the staircase with the kind of unintentional elegance that silenced a room. She moved with quiet poise, dressed in an ankle-length white lace dress that whispered with each step. Her hair, usually pulled back in her practical, working-day manner, had been loosely curled, framing her face in soft waves.

The afternoon sun had dipped low, casting golden streaks across the marble floor as she descended.

Everyone turned.

She paused briefly at the last step, offering a soft, composed smile before bowing her head politely. “Apologies for the delay,” she said with ease, her voice light and calm. “The meeting ran a little longer than expected.”

Arya smiled proudly at her, gesturing toward the guests. “Come, say hello properly. Melissa, Derek, Winston—this is Clarissa.”

Clarissa turned toward the trio with grace and greeted them in perfect English. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, bowing slightly. But inside, her thoughts flickered.

𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯? She had not expected him to be here. A flicker of surprise crossed her expression, just for a moment, before she tucked it away behind years of social training.

And then—Melissa. She had recognized her instantly.

The woman sitting beside Derek Langford, now smiling up at her so graciously, was the same Melissa she had met months ago at the private global women’s leadership conference in Singapore. They had spoken casually at a cocktail hour, not as Langford and Madhava, but as two strangers sharing a moment of candid conversation about legacy and responsibility. Clarissa had never known her full name, only Melissa.

And now, here she was.

Melissa’s smile carried a knowing softness as she stood to greet Clarissa with a gentle touch to her hand. “It’s lovely to see you again,” she said, her tone layered with quiet recognition.

Clarissa blinked once. “I didn’t realize we’d met again so soon,” she replied, her voice steady but her mind racing.

Winston, standing beside his parents, gave her a small nod. He, too, was more polished than she remembered him from their project meetings. The way he looked at her wasn’t one of surprise—but of intent. He had come here with purpose.

She took the seat beside her father, still catching her breath in the silence behind her practiced smile. Kirana, meanwhile, watched everything like a hawk dressed in silk.

Her eyes moved from Clarissa’s entrance to the warm recognition between Melissa and her stepdaughter, and something tightened in her jaw. Whatever small edge she thought she might have had—gone.

And Winston, his eyes never leaving Clarissa from the moment she appeared, felt something inside him settle. She belonged here. Not in the way of decorum or appearances—but in essence. Amid all the elegance and legacy and politics, Clarissa was the one who moved through it like she had been born for it, but without ever trying to prove a thing.

And that, Winston thought, only confirmed what he already feared and hoped at once.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘍𝘢𝘴𝘵.

Kirana sat in silence, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable—yet her bitterness was loud to anyone who had learned to recognize the language of suppressed resentment. The way Melissa Langford smiled with warmth and authority, effortlessly commanding the attention of the room, reminded Kirana—painfully—of everything she had always wanted to be seen as.

The Langfords didn’t have to try. They didn’t have to wear logos or throw around surnames or remind people where they came from. Their presence spoke louder than all of Kirana’s years of effort.

Her eyes flicked over Melissa’s tailored, understated silk dress, the minimal jewelry, the subtle elegance that made her own bold choices look clumsy. She glanced at Clarissa too—her stepdaughter, now glowing in the soft lighting, dressed in that ethereal white lace without an ounce of vanity. Clarissa didn't even seem aware of the grace she carried.

And the worst part? Melissa had already taken a liking to her 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥. Kirana’s lips pressed into a thin line as she adjusted the napkin on her lap for no reason other than to keep her hands busy. She smiled when people looked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Then Arya, with his natural charm and grounded energy, stood up and clapped his hands gently.

“Let’s not keep the chefs waiting,” he said with a warm grin. “Please, everyone, the dining room is ready. Shall we?”

He gestured toward the carved wooden doors now being opened by the staff. The room beyond glowed with the soft flicker of candles and antique chandeliers, casting warm light onto a long teakwood table dressed in batik runners, ceramic chargers, and gleaming silverware.

Melissa rose with a gracious nod, linking her arm with Derek’s. Winston offered his hand in a gentlemanly gesture to Clarissa, who hesitated a moment before accepting with a slight smile.

As the group began to move, Kirana remained seated just a few seconds longer than the rest. Just long enough to be noticed, but not enough to cause comment. She stood last, smoothing the folds of her designer kebaya, and followed behind them—still wearing that curated smile, still wondering how, in her own house, she had become the least interesting woman in the room.

She knew exactly what this dinner was. And exactly what it meant.

The aroma of seared wagyu and herbs filled the air as the servers placed the steak courses gently in front of each guest. The plates were artful—medium-rare slices fanned neatly, paired with roasted shallots, Balinese-style butter potatoes, and a delicate jus that shimmered under the chandelier light.

Arya lifted his glass and smiled. “Please, enjoy the meal. It’s from a local butcher in Ubud. Clarissa picked the cut.”

That earned her a glance from Winston, subtle but warm. Clarissa nodded humbly, her eyes focused on her plate, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

The conversation began light, centered around design trends and the evolving digital space. Derek leaned in occasionally with genuine interest, drawing Clarissa into longer replies.

“So you’re leading the cross-market team for that campaign in Tokyo?” he asked between bites, visibly impressed. “That’s not an easy client.” Clarissa nodded, carefully modest. “They’re demanding, but the team’s good. I try to… hold the vision, while making room for collaboration.”

“She’s being humble,” Arya added with a chuckle. “The CEO requested her personally after the last project. And she managed the full redesign with a third of the proposed timeline.”

Derek laughed, eyes shining. “That’s a Langford-level move. You know that, right?”

Clarissa blushed slightly. Winston looked down at his fork, hiding a small smile. Kirana, seated across from Melissa, tapped her glass lightly with her nail.

“Design is wonderful, but you know, I’ve always believed it’s more about who you know. So many young people burn out chasing innovation without understanding the politics behind the curtain.”

She glanced sideways, tone airy but sharp. “Some things aren’t taught in school, or even in offices.”

Melissa didn’t miss a beat. “That’s true. Which is why upbringing is so critical. We’ve always taught Winston to navigate those things with clarity—but integrity first.”

Derek chimed in, gesturing toward Clarissa. “And I must say, it’s refreshing to see someone not trying to shortcut the work. We’ve seen too many careers collapse from that.”

Kirana’s smile tightened. She sipped her wine slowly.

Undeterred, she tried again. “I do wonder sometimes, Clarissa—do you think juggling so many international projects, with your age and, well, everything going on—do you ever fear losing touch with the... cultural essence?”

Before Clarissa could answer, Melissa gently interjected. “That’s an interesting question. But it seems to me Clarissa is striking a beautiful balance. The way she incorporates cultural elements into modern design—very few do that well. She’s... grounded.”

“Rare, actually,” Derek added. “In any region.”

Kirana dabbed at her lips with her napkin, eyes darkening ever so slightly. She had hoped to unsettle Clarissa, to shift the conversation in her favor, even just momentarily. But it was clear now: the Langfords saw through every attempt—without confrontation, without drama. They countered her every move with a graciousness that made resistance feel cheap.

Clarissa, for her part, remained calm, polite, and quiet. She hadn’t defended herself once. She didn’t have to.

The room was already on her side.

As the last bite of steak was cleared from their plates, the low hum of conversation softened. Dessert was on its way—individual plates of coconut panna cotta, drizzled with passionfruit coulis and garnished with edible orchids. The scent of roasted palm sugar and vanilla teased the air as the servers moved around the table with silent precision.

Arya leaned back in his chair, sipping from a small glass of after-dinner arak, clearly content. Kirana, meanwhile, sat stiffly, her spoon tracing the edge of her water glass. Melissa remained poised, her conversation with Clarissa effortless and low-toned, like they were already family.

It was in that pause—between the main course and the arrival of dessert—that Derek turned slightly toward Arya, his tone measured and warm.

“Arya,” he said, just loud enough to shift the attention at the table, “if I may, there’s something we hoped to speak to you about.”

Arya, always attuned, set down his glass and gave his old friend his full attention. “Of course. What is it?”

Derek gave a brief glance to Winston, who straightened slightly in his seat, his expression composed, though his fingers rested tensely against the napkin in his lap.

“It’s about Winston,” Derek continued, with a slow nod. “And Clarissa.”

The table went still. Clarissa looked up, confused, lips parting slightly as her eyes shifted between Winston and his father. Kirana’s jaw froze mid-clench, her gaze sharpening. Arya, however, kept his composure. “Go on,” Arya said, his voice steady.

Winston finally spoke, gently but with clarity. “I know this might come as a surprise. Clarissa and I haven’t known each other long, but… in the time we’ve worked together, I’ve come to admire her—deeply. Her integrity. Her mind. The way she carries herself. It made something clear to me.”

He paused, steadying his breath.

“I’m not here to propose a wedding, or make a rushed commitment. But I would like to ask permission—formally—𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩.”

Clarissa’s eyes widened, but she remained still, stunned. Winston continued.

“I don’t expect answers tonight. I only want to make my intentions clear to her family—that I am serious. And that I’m willing to take this path slowly, respectfully. To give us the time to learn each other properly, without pressure.”

Kirana scoffed under her breath but quickly masked it with a tight smile. Arya raised an eyebrow, then looked to Clarissa—not with surprise, but a gentle curiosity. She was quiet, processing.

Derek added, calmly, “We believe in intention, Arya. Not in rushing things. Winston asked us to support this approach—not a courtship with ambiguity, but a commitment to truly explore this, together, as two families.”

Arya nodded, deeply. There was something old and respectful in the way he folded his hands. “I appreciate the way you’ve approached this,” he said finally, looking at Winston. “And I won’t speak for Clarissa. She is her own person—strong, capable. Whatever this becomes, it will be her choice.”

He turned to his daughter, softly. “We’ll talk. When you’re ready.”

Clarissa gave a single, slow nod, her throat tight, lips parted like she wanted to speak but needed time. The desserts were served, quietly, but no one moved to touch them just yet. And for the first time that evening, Kirana had nothing to say.

The clink of silver on porcelain resumed slowly as the tension began to dissolve into the aroma of sweet coconut and tart passionfruit. The room had grown quieter—not out of discomfort, but a subtle anticipation that hovered just above the table.

Clarissa hadn’t spoken yet, and everyone was waiting. The lass herself was in so much confusion, she couldn’t think of a response properly.

Kirana, with her practiced tone of concern and control, seized the silence.

“I must say something,” she began, looking at Arya, then Melissa and Derek. Her voice was smooth, but her words were deliberate, aimed like tiny blades.

“I understand Winston’s sincerity, truly. But I do feel the need to remind everyone—Clarissa is still grieving. It’s only been three months since the funeral.”

Her eyes lingered on Clarissa, as if daring her to show a crack. “I’m not sure this is the time for her to be making any decisions—especially about engagement."

Arya exhaled quietly, his face unreadable. Melissa looked toward Clarissa gently, concern flickering behind her eyes—but she said nothing. Derek’s jaw clenched slightly, but he remained still.

Clarissa, however, didn’t look up right away. She took another graceful bite of her dessert—cool panna cotta melting softly against her tongue, the passionfruit bright and sharp like the moment itself. When she finally set her spoon down, she dabbed her lips with her napkin, placed it neatly beside her plate, and lifted her gaze.

“Kirana,” she said, with a tone both cool and serene, “thank you. But my grief does not make me incapable of thought. Nor does it put my life on hold indefinitely.”

Her voice was calm, each word clear. “This isn’t a decision made tonight. Nor was it a proposal asking for my answer now. Winston showed respect. So should we.” She turned slightly, facing everyone now—her father, the Langfords, even Kirana. Her composure was crystalline.

“I will give my answer. But I’ll do so at the end of the dinner.”

Winston glanced toward her, his face still, but his breath caught faintly at her words. Arya’s expression barely shifted, but there was something proud in the way his fingers tapped once gently against the wood of the table.

Kirana said nothing further. Her eyes dropped to her untouched dessert.

Clarissa took another bite. Her hand didn’t shake. But inside her mind, it was a storm. Winston’s voice echoing, her own past rushing forward, and the distant pulse of something new. Something real. Something terrifying. Somehow, this wasn’t the first, but her heart was beating so fast as if this was such a grand deal.

Melissa gently broke the silence that lingered after Clarissa’s poised declaration.

She set down her fork, her smile refined as always.

“Well,” she began, glancing at Arya, “this dinner is absolutely lovely. The food is excellent—please extend our compliments to the chef. The spice balance in the sambal butter on the steaks was just… brilliant.”

Derek nodded in agreement, leaning slightly forward, his tone both gracious and steady. “Truly impressive. And as for Clarissa,” he said, glancing toward her with genuine warmth, “we understand that it’s a lot to take in. No pressure from us, of course. It’s your life to live, your pace to choose.”

Clarissa offered a slight smile in response, her shoulders softening just enough to betray the relief she felt at the Langfords’ grace. She returned to her dessert, the weight of the room easing slightly now that the conversation had shifted.

Arya, ever the host but always the strategist, turned toward Winston, a glint of interest in his eye. “Derek told me you're beginning to lean into global expansion,” he said. “Specifically in Southeast Asia? Mining, wasn’t it?”

Winston placed his wine glass down and nodded. “Yes. We’re exploring rare earth minerals in central Kalimantan. The demand in Europe is surging, especially with the shift to green energy and battery tech. Our firm’s strategy is focused on vertical integration—owning the extraction and refining in-house.”

Arya leaned back slightly, intrigued. “Interesting. We’ve been monitoring similar moves in Sumatra. Nickel and bauxite—especially for the EV market.”

Derek, joining in, added, “Indonesia is sitting on one of the last great reserves of these critical materials. And the government’s push on downstream industries is creating new lanes for partnerships.”

Their conversation picked up momentum, becoming sharper, more animated. Arya and Winston volleyed economic insight and political nuance with an ease that showed both experience and mutual respect. Derek occasionally added depth from his macroeconomic view, while Melissa listened with polite interest, sipping her tea and occasionally glancing at Clarissa with a quiet understanding.

Kirana, still silent, pushed her food around her plate, increasingly aware that she was no longer the center of the evening’s attention.

Clarissa watched the discussion from across the table, her thoughts a quiet whirlpool behind her composed gaze. Winston, seated beside his father, looked at ease—confident, capable, composed. He wasn't just a suitor. He was a man raised in boardrooms and legacy, speaking fluently the language of power her family lived by. It rattled her in a way she didn’t know what to do with yet.

And the clock was ticking, slowly counting down to the end of the dinner.

The final course had been cleared. Dessert plates gleamed with traces of cream and tropical syrup. The candlelight flickered gently, casting golden hues on polished teak walls and centuries-old Balinese carvings that surrounded the long dining table.

The mood, moments ago filled with laughter and sharp business talk, softened into a still, electric quiet.

Clarissa had said she would give her answer after dinner. Now, all eyes were drawn—some with hope, others with hesitation—to the young woman in white lace seated calmly at the end of the table. She shut her eyes, trying to answer this carefully.

The youngest lady in the room sat with her spine straight, her expression unreadable, gaze resting on the empty space in front of her. Her fingers were gently woven together on her lap. Winston, just across from her, kept his face still. His heart thudded heavy in his chest, though he didn’t let it show. He wouldn’t push. He couldn’t. He’d meant everything he said, but this—this moment—was hers.

Melissa, regal as ever, stayed silent, her posture relaxed, her eyes kind. Derek rested one hand near his wine glass, unreadable but respectful. Arya leaned slightly back in his chair, watchful but unpressing. And Kirana, bitter behind her forced smile, toyed with her pearl bracelet, her eyes sharp and shadowed with the sting of repeated failure.

The lass finally lifted her gaze. Her voice, when it came, was soft, but it carried.

“I’ve been grieving,” she said.

No one moved.

“It hasn’t been easy,” she continued, “losing Harvey. It’s a strange kind of emptiness that doesn’t announce itself every day—but sits there, quiet and cold, beneath everything.”

Winston looked down briefly, a silent nod of respect. Her voice didn’t shake. “I don’t know if I can love again. I don’t know if my heart works the same way anymore. And I think… it’s only fair to say that out loud, before anything else.”

A subtle shift around the table—just the breathless anticipation of those waiting for a turn in the road. She looked to Winston directly now, not coldly, not softly—just clearly. “You asked to build something. Not to claim something. That means something to me.”

He nodded gently, eyes locked with hers, offering no pressure—only presence.

“I won’t promise something I can’t give,” she continued, “but I will try this engagement arrangement. With honesty. With boundaries. And with the understanding that I might one day walk away, if it doesn’t feel right. No pressure to a wedding so close in time.”

Another pause. “But I’ll begin. I’ll try.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t silence—it was a collective exhale. Not relief. Not celebration. Something quieter.

Something closer to reverence. Winston let his shoulders fall just slightly, his hands resting on the table now, steady. “Thank you,” he said softly. “That’s all I could ever ask.”

Melissa’s eyes shimmered with approval, while Derek offered the faintest of nods, as if to say, well done, both of you.

Arya glanced toward his daughter—not proud, not surprised, just… grounded. He had known she would say something brave. He always did. Kirana, meanwhile, simply took a sip of her untouched wine and smiled tightly, the bitterness behind her teeth like vinegar.

He sat at the head of the table, unmoving. His fingers tightened slightly around the carved wooden arms of his chair as her words sank in. He hadn’t expected her to say yes. Not truly.

He had prepared himself for her to decline, for her to ask for more time—or to shut the entire conversation down in her gentle, decisive way. It would’ve been her right. Her grief had been hers alone, long and quiet and private. He had watched her carry it with grace.

He had never rushed her. And yet… she had said yes.

Not a fairytale yes. Not a naive one. But a real one. A yes that held her broken pieces together. A yes that came with conditions, with caution, with truth.

That was her way—measured, brave, beautifully unyielding.

Arya’s throat tightened.

He tried to blink the tears away discreetly, but they came anyway, spilling silently down the strong lines of his face, catching in the salt-and-pepper of his beard. He wasn’t a man often seen crying. He had held empires and buried pain with quiet dignity. But this—this was his daughter, choosing to start again.

Arya bowed his head slightly, his chest rising with a deep, quiet breath, steadying himself.

Clarissa noticed. She looked to him, and he looked back—father and daughter. In that look, no words were needed. She knew what her yes meant to him. Not just the engagement. Not even Winston. But her will to live forward. Her permission to herself to begin again.

He cleared his throat gently, and with a softened voice, said, “I never thought I’d hear you say that tonight.” His voice cracked slightly. “You surprise me, Flo. You always do.”

Everyone turned slightly toward him now, his emotion grounding the moment.

“I know how hard it’s been,” Arya continued. “And I know… nothing about this is easy. But seeing you choose to take a step, even uncertainly… it tells me you’re finding your way. That you’re… alive. And you’re still you. That’s more than I could ever ask for.”

He turned his gaze toward Winston—measured, serious. “Take care of her. She’s strong, but she doesn’t need to carry everything alone.”

“I will,” Winston replied, without falter. “Always.”

Arya nodded once, sharp and clear. That was the only blessing he would give. The only one needed. Clarissa gave her father a small smile—gentle, grateful, not overdone. She reached slightly across the table, and with a quiet gesture, rested her hand over his. He held it.

Kirana noticed, her lips pressed thin, but the room no longer had room for her bitterness. In that estate carved from the soil of generations, something had shifted. Not a ceremony. Not a contract. But a beginning.

Clarissa Madhava had said yes—not to a man, not yet to love—but to herself. To life. Again.

Melissa was the first to break the reverent silence that followed Arya’s words, her voice warm but steady, touched with emotion.

“Clarissa,” she began, turning her full attention to the young woman across the table, “thank you… for your honesty, for your strength. You don’t owe any of us anything—least of all tonight. But the fact that you’re willing to try, even after everything you’ve been through... it humbles us.”

Her voice softened as she continued, “From today onward, you’re not alone. You have us. You have a family who will stand behind you, no matter where this path takes you.”

Derek, who had been listening intently beside her, nodded and added, “We don’t take this lightly. We know what it means—for you to say yes under no illusion. And we respect it, Clarissa. That kind of courage… it’s not common. We see it. We feel honored.”

He looked at Arya, then back at her. “You will be treated as our own. Not just as Winston’s fiancée, not as someone to impress—but as our daughter. From this day forward.”

Melissa reached across the table, her hand finding Clarissa’s gently. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. All we ask is that you be yourself. That’s enough. More than enough.”

Clarissa looked at them, her composure still intact, but her eyes shimmered now—not from sadness, but from something unfamiliar she hadn’t felt in a long time: safety. She hadn’t expected to feel so seen. So accepted.

Across the table, Arya sat in thoughtful silence. Then he gave the Langfords a slow, respectful nod.

“That means more than you know,” he said simply, his voice weighted with gratitude. “I’ve built many alliances in my life, but this… this is different. This is trust.”

Melissa gave him a soft smile. “And it’s not given lightly on either side.”

Winston hadn’t spoken in a while, but he didn’t need to. The steadiness in his eyes was unwavering. He looked not at the future, but at the present moment—the strength it took Clarissa to speak, and the way both their families had quietly surrounded them like a fortress.

Kirana said nothing, her hands clenched tightly under the tablecloth, her eyes darting between the faces, increasingly invisible in a moment she had tried to undermine. But no one was watching her now.

The room had shifted. Something permanent had been set in motion. Not a celebration. Not yet. But a promise. Made in quiet conviction. Made in grace. Made around a table in the heart of a Balinese estate that had stood for generations—now witnessing the beginning of something new.

Winston felt like he could scream from the inside out. Joy surged through every inch of his body, pressing against his chest like thunder ready to break. But he remained composed—barely. His breath trembled.

His hands, once steady, now trembled not with the weight of overwhelming happiness. Clarissa had said yes. Maybe not a yes with fireworks, but a yes that mattered even more—a yes spoken with honesty, grounded in grief, and offered with a courage that undid him.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slowly placed a small velvet box onto the table before him.

“I—” he started, then swallowed hard and tried again, his voice thick with held-back tears, “I brought something… Not to overwhelm or rush anything. Just something to mark this moment.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to the box.

“There are two rings in here,” he said, looking at Clarissa, his voice gentler now, more certain. “One is from the Langford family. It belonged to my grandmother, who passed it to my mother, and now to me. And the other… is from my mother’s side—the Spencer family. I had it reset recently. I wanted you to have a choice. One for heritage, the other for meaning. Both, if you want.”

He looked over at Arya, a silent question in his eyes.

Arya met his gaze for a long moment, the depth of a father’s love and protectiveness flickering behind his calm demeanor. He said nothing for a second, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and murmured, “Go ahead, son.”

It broke something inside Winston—he lowered his eyes, lips trembling, and took in a shaky breath. “Thank you, sir.”

He turned to Clarissa. His eyes now glassy with tears, he opened the ring box carefully, revealing the two rings: one an antique piece of elegant vintage platinum and sapphire—the Langford legacy; the other a delicate rose-cut diamond set in a modern yet timeless band, unmistakably Spencer in style.

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t need to. Everything in his posture—his slightly hunched shoulders, his hands offering her the rings—carried more reverence than any practiced proposal.

“This is not to bind you,” Winston said softly, “It’s just… a mark of something beginning. Not as colleagues, not as families. But as us.”

Clarissa looked at the rings for a long moment. Her heart was racing, her fingers slightly cold against her lap. She hadn’t expected this much emotion to well up inside her.

Winston was offering her not just a ring—but space, and time. The freedom to grow into this slowly. The courage to admit it might not last, but that it was worth trying anyway.

She nodded once, just barely, and extended her hand toward him. Winston reached out, took her hand, and gently slid the Langford ring onto her finger.

The one she chose.

Arya turned away briefly, blinking fast and wiping at his face. He had never imagined that Clarissa would say yes. Never thought he'd see her open her heart again after Harvey.

But here she was—choosing to live again, to love differently, perhaps, one day. And choosing someone who wanted to carry that weight with her.

Melissa reached for Derek’s hand across the table, squeezing it with a smile that held both pride and peace. They had seen their son try and fail at many things, but this—this was the one thing he did right with his whole heart. And they knew they would protect Clarissa as if she were their own blood.

Kirana sat in silence, her expression unreadable, her bitterness drowning in the room's undeniable warmth and quiet joy. The ring sat on Clarissa’s finger like it had always belonged there—not to bind, but to bless. A beginning. A soft one. But a true one.

As the soft clinking of silverware settled and quiet once again blanketed the table, Winston leaned in slightly toward Clarissa, just enough so only she could hear him. His voice was low, careful, trembling with earnestness that couldn’t be masked.

“You don’t have to forget him,” he whispered, eyes fixed gently on hers. “I’ll never ask you to erase Harvey. You loved him. You probably still do. That doesn’t scare me.” Clarissa’s eyes softened. Her breath caught slightly. She hadn’t expected those words—so freely given, so unguarded. Her fingers touched the edge of the ring now sitting on her hand, unfamiliar yet somehow fitting.

“You can love him and still walk forward,” Winston continued, barely audible, “and I’ll be right there beside you—whether we’re engaged for a year, or five, or if you wake up one day and decide this isn’t what you want. I’m not here to trap you.”

His thumb grazed the back of her hand gently.

“I want you safe. I want you happy. That’s all. You don’t owe me love today. Or even tomorrow. Just… let me be here. That’s all I ask.”

Clarissa blinked hard, feeling tears press behind her eyes. No one had said those things to her. Not even in her loneliest nights. No one had given her the freedom to grieve and love at the same time without guilt. Until now.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The quiet tremor in her breath, the way her fingers held his back, said enough.

Across the table, Arya looked at them both—his daughter, guarded but softening; Winston, steady in his devotion—and exhaled a long, quiet breath. The impossible was slowly becoming possible. And maybe, just maybe, his little girl was finally beginning to live again.

The night carried on with the gentle cadence of soft laughter and clinking glasses, but the energy had shifted—mellow, warmer, and fuller somehow. The ocean breeze outside whispered against the open balcony doors of the grand Bali estate, carrying the scent of frangipani and sea salt through the marble halls.

As dessert plates were cleared and tea was poured, the conversation flowed more naturally. Not forced, not stiff. Just... human. Arya leaned back in his chair with a rare ease, the creases around his eyes deeper than usual—this time from emotion, not age. Every so often, his gaze would drift toward Clarissa, lingering, protective, but no longer weighed down by fear. Tonight, for the first time in years, she looked like someone reaching for the light again.

Kirana, quiet and withdrawn now, excused herself under the pretense of fatigue. No one pressed her. No one noticed much. She disappeared up the staircase, leaving behind only the faint trace of her perfume and bitterness.

Derek stood and clinked his glass gently, a smile playing on his face.

“We won’t take much more of your evening,” he said, looking to Arya and then Clarissa. “This has already been far more than we’d hoped for. Thank you—for welcoming us into your home, into your life. We’ll honor this beginning, whatever it may become.”

Melissa nodded beside him, her voice steady and warm. “You’re family now. Whatever Clarissa needs, we’re here. As protectors. As parents. No less.”

Arya gave them both a long look, his heart full. “Then she’s in good hands,” he said softly. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

As the Langfords rose to leave, Winston lingered behind, just for a second longer. He turned to Clarissa—still seated, still quiet, still holding his ring. His voice was low but sure.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, not a question, but a promise. Clarissa met his eyes. No smile, not yet. But there was something there.

A gentleness. A beginning.

She had no idea why she would say yes tonight, but somehow there’s something inside her heart that told her to. Something that told her that this wouldn’t hurt her. Something that told her everything’s going to be okay.

“Soon,” she replied.

Outside, the estate’s lanterns glowed golden against the darkening sky. The Langfords stepped into the night, the sound of waves in the distance echoing the calm that now settled within the old stone walls.

And behind them, deep in the heart of the Madhava home, the memory of the evening would linger—bittersweet, quiet, and full of the weight of something new: not just an engagement, but the cautious rebirth of love.

END.

[siltrace]

Arrangements

The rain had been steady all evening, brushing softly against the long windows of the Langford drawing room. Low jazz played from the antique turntable tucked near the bookshelf— Ella Fitzgerald’s voice wrapping around the corners of the room like velvet.

The fire had been lit over an hour ago and was now burning low, embers glowing like dying stars. Melissa Langford sat with her knees curled on the emerald settee, her sketchpad forgotten in her lap, hands stained with charcoal. She hadn’t drawn anything in twenty minutes.

She was watching her son. Winston stood by the window, one hand braced against the pane, the other wrapped around a heavy crystal tumbler filled with untouched bourbon. The city beyond the hedges was hushed by the rain, cloaking everything in a sense of pause. He looked like he had been standing there for a long time— not waiting, exactly, but deciding.

Derek Langford, meticulous as ever in a pressed navy robe and slippers, had set aside his ministerial briefing. His fingers steepled beneath his chin as he leaned back into his leather armchair, watching his son with the gaze of a man who knew something was coming and was letting it arrive on its own terms. Finally, Winston spoke.

“I keep thinking this would be easier if I wasn’t so sure.”

Melissa looked up from the pages. “About Clarissa?”

He nodded once. “It would make more sense to doubt. I’d know what to do with doubt. But this…” He exhaled, quietly. “This is conviction. And I think that’s what scares me.”

He turned slowly and sat down on the ottoman across from them. The firelight cast soft gold into the hollows of his face, and for a long moment, he just stared at the rug, fingers slowly tightening around the glass.

“I’ve never felt something so settled and so terrifying at the same time,” he said. “It’s not infatuation. It’s not excitement. It’s a kind of knowing that doesn’t leave. Even when I try to challenge it. Even when I sit down and logically list all the ways this could end in disaster— I still come back to the same feeling: It’s her. It’s always been her.”

Melissa set down the sketchpad and leaned forward.

“Tell us.” Winston’s voice softened, barely above the crackle of the fire. “It started slowly when I bumped into her, not knowing who she was. Then, I met her again, alone, somewhere in the corner of the campus. As if she’s empty.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Since then, I haven’t been able to stop wondering. Who is she when no one’s watching? Who carries her silence? Who helps her rest? And does she even know she’s allowed to?”

Derek studied him for a long moment. “You’re in love with her.”

Winston didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“And yet,” Melissa said gently, “you’re afraid.”

“Yes,” Winston admitted. “Because I know love doesn’t guarantee anything. And because she’s someone who’s learned —painfully— not to trust easily. If I approach this too quickly, I could trigger every defense she’s ever built. If I wait too long, she might decide I’m not serious.”

He finally met their eyes. “I’m not afraid of commitment. I’m afraid of becoming another name she learns to bury.”

The room was quiet. Melissa stood and walked to him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You were always the boy who noticed things no one else saw. And sometimes, you carry other people’s pain before you even understand your own.”

She sat beside him. “What do you want from her, Winston? Truly?”

“I want a life,” he said without hesitation. “Not a prize. Not a partnership for optics. I want to know how she thinks when she’s half-asleep. What she reads when she can’t sleep. What her real laugh sounds like— not the political one, not the guarded one. The real one. I want to walk beside her. Even if she’s slow to trust. Even if she fights me at first. I just want the chance to walk with her.”

Derek rose and moved to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a scotch. “I spoke with Arya,” he said quietly.

Winston looked up, startled. “What?”

“At the event. Less than a week ago. I approached him, casually, but deliberately. He just knew.”

Winston’s heart kicked. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t give a blessing yet,” Derek replied, handing his son a refilled glass. “But he didn’t reject the idea either. He listened. He asked questions. I could see it— the calculation, the worry. Not because you’re unworthy, Winston. But because he’s spent years watching his daughter walk through fire, only to find more fire on the other side.”

He sat back down. “But then, at the end, he said something, almost offhandedly, like a test. He said something around talking about it as families.”

Winston’s grip tightened around the glass. “He’s willing to meet?”

Melissa smiled. “He’s giving you space. And that’s more than most would expect from Arya.”

Derek added, “We could arrange a dinner. Private. Quiet. Just us. A start.”

Winston looked between them. The room, for all its grandeur, suddenly felt sacred. Like a moment that would live in his memory for years. “I don’t want to rush her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” Melissa replied. “She’ll know. If you’re patient, if you’re honest, she’ll feel the difference.”

“Do you think she’ll come?” he asked, eyes fixed on the fire. Derek didn’t answer right away. He looked at his son— not as a boy, but as a man at the edge of something monumental. “I think if she senses even one ounce of pretense, she’ll run,” Derek said plainly. “But if she sees your stillness, your truth— not the heir, not the polished version of yourself— you… then yes. She’ll come.”

Melissa leaned her head against Winston’s shoulder. “Don’t try to win her, darling. Just show up. Let her see you.”

Winston nodded slowly.

The fire had long since burned down to glowing embers. Melissa had gone upstairs, sensing that something still needed to pass between father and son.

Outside, the rain had softened into mist, the world hushed in the sacred silence only midnight could hold. Winston remained in the study, standing by the fireplace, now nursing the drink Derek had poured him. The clock ticked in the background— stately, deliberate, like a heartbeat you could walk beside. Derek stood at the window, arms crossed behind his back. He’d been silent for minutes, watching the quiet darkness, lost in the long thoughts of a man who had lived through public wars and private failures.

“I was twenty-seven when I met your mother,” he said, finally. Winston glanced up. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” Derek said, his voice even. “You know the facts. You’ve seen the photos. But you don’t know what I mean.”

He turned and looked at Winston directly. “I was twenty-seven, with a career spiraling upward, and a heart that hadn’t been properly broken yet. She was bold, defiant, and an artist— which made absolutely no sense for a man like me. But I knew. Within two conversations. I knew she would ruin me or make me real.”

Winston said nothing, watching his father with a quiet kind of reverence. Derek walked to the chair across from him and sat down.

“But I didn’t want to rush her,” he continued. “I didn’t want to flirt. I wanted her to walk beside me, not as a trial, not as an audition. If I was to propose an engagement, not because I needed a wedding, but because I needed her to know I was serious. That she could take her time.”

He paused. “And she did. Professionally."

Winston looked into the fire again, mind slowly catching up with the idea. “You’re saying I should ask Clarissa… to be engaged?”

“I’m saying,” Derek replied carefully, “that this isn’t about ceremony. This isn’t even about politics. This is about creating space where trust can take root. You don’t know her completely, and she doesn’t know you. But what she needs to know is that your intention is grounded. That you aren’t asking her to gamble. You’re asking her to choose to begin something that unfolds in time.” Winston’s brows drew in slightly.

“Wouldn’t that be… a lot? Premature?”

“To most people, yes,” Derek said. “But Clarissa isn’t most people. She is a woman with a mind like a fortress and a history that’s taught her to dismantle hope before it grows. She doesn’t want to be courted. She wants to be seen. And she wants to know she won’t have to armor herself forever just to be loved.”

He leaned forward. “A courtship, Winston —a typical one— would trap her. It would force her to perform. An engagement gives her clarity. Freedom. Time. She can walk into it knowing no one is rushing her to a wedding, but someone is asking her to believe in something beyond the next season.”

Winston’s hand rested against his mouth, thinking. The weight of the idea settled like a coat on his shoulders. Not burdensome, but real. Tangible.

“She might think it’s a strategy,” he murmured.

“She’ll test you,” Derek said simply. “That’s her right. But if your heart is true, if you make this not about ownership or appearance but invitation, she will understand.”

Winston slowly nodded. “It’s… bold.”

“You’re not a boy anymore, Winston,” his father said. “You don’t need to ask for permission to feel something this deep. And you don’t need a dozen dinners to justify the pull you already recognize.”

He paused, then added more softly. “Give her something she’s never been given: certainty without pressure. That’s what an engagement like this would be.”

Winston looked at his father for a long time, the silence between them now less about distance and more about reverence. Then he stood, the decision forming like slow steel in his spine. “I’ll ask her,” he said quietly. “Not to marry me. Not yet. But to stand with me. To see if something real can grow.”

Derek gave the smallest nod— an acknowledgment, a blessing, and perhaps even a little pride.

“Then let’s make the dinner happen,” he said. “And let her see what you’ve decided. With no expectations. No demands.”

Winston turned toward the window again, watching the city beyond the hedges. For the first time in weeks, he felt clear.

END.

[siltrace]

Between Two Fathers

The chandeliers above the garden hall glinted with refracted sunlight, casting golden shadows over the room. Servants moved with elegant precision, pouring vintage French wines and placing delicate plates of smoked fish and lemongrass risotto in front of guests seated at long, ivory-clothed tables.

Here, in this hidden circle of Asia’s elite —academics, industrialists, and legacy heirs— conversation flowed in low, educated tones. No one raised their voice. No one checked their phones.

Derek Langford stood by the terrace, the sleeves of his cream linen blazer rolled halfway, a pair of thin-framed reading glasses tucked into the front pocket of his blue shirt. At sixty-one, he carried the quiet confidence of a man whose family name echoed in vineyard halls across Europe and whose published works in neuroscience still made the rounds at Cambridge and Berkeley.

He sipped from a glass of Barossa shiraz as his eyes swept the room— until they paused, recognizing a man he had only seen from across rooms before.

𝗔𝗿𝘆𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮.

He moved with unhurried calm, his batik shirt a deep indigo over tailored trousers, silver cufflinks glinting in the sun. His hair was fully silver now, neatly combed back, and his expression bore the precision of a CEO who had long stopped needing to prove his presence in any room. Derek extended his hand.

“Madhava. I was hoping we’d have a moment.” Arya’s face relaxed with the polite smile of a man accustomed to countless introductions. “Langford. The pleasure is mine. My son’s been meaning to invite you over one of these events.”

“I imagine he’s still drafting the perfect letter,” Derek said with a soft chuckle. “He believes first impressions should be typeset.”

That earned a faint smile from Arya— the kind that said this one might be different. They found a quiet corner of the terrace, away from the flow of guests. Between them, the city stretched hazy and warm under Jakarta’s humid sky.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Arya said, lifting his glass slightly. “Neuroscience, if I recall.”

“Yes. Still teaching, though less frequently now,” Derek replied. “I’m mostly overseeing the neuroscience and AI labs at King’s College, and serving on a few policy boards. I leave the heavy lifting to the young.”

“You’re also at Langford Winery, aren’t you?” Arya asked, eyeing him curiously. “Napa Valley and York?”

“My younger brother manages the vineyards,” Derek replied. “I taste. Occasionally speak at trade events when forced. But I’ve always preferred tannins.”

Arya’s brow lifted slightly— rare honesty was valuable currency in rooms like these. Derek continued, “My wife, Melissa — she teaches as well. Fine arts. University of London. Spencer by birth.”

Arya blinked once, catching the name. “The Spencers? Mining and Jewelry?”

“That’s the one,” Derek said with a faint smile. “She walked away from the boardroom at twenty-nine. Wanted oil paints, not opals.”

Arya chuckled softly. “You and I have strong-willed women. That is a blessing and a responsibility.”

Derek tilted his head, humored. “Mostly the latter when they’re right.”

Their glasses clinked gently, and for a moment the air between them was comfortable— two men who had weathered decades of empire, quietly watching the world evolve. Then Derek leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought.

“I believe our families have… crossed professionally, in a sense,” he said. Arya looked up. “My son, Winston, is lecturing part-time at the University of Madhava. Just a few sessions a week while he manages our Kalimantan mining interests.”

“Ah,” Arya said slowly, connecting the dots. “Yes, I’ve seen the name on the list.”

“He’s mentioned your daughter. Clarissa.” Arya looked up, polite but guarded. Derek paused deliberately. “They seem to be spending a fair amount of time together.”

The words hung between them like a shift in air pressure. Arya’s expression didn’t change, but Derek noticed the stillness in his shoulders. “I assumed you knew,” Derek added gently.

Arya blinked once— the only outward crack in composure. “Clarissa hasn’t mentioned… anything of that nature.” Derek smiled faintly. “She’s a woman of privacy. Melissa met her recently— at a panel in Singapore. Came home visibly taken. Which is rare for Melissa. She usually only respects people who’ve suffered.”

Arya said nothing. His fingers tapped once on the edge of his glass.

“Clarissa,” Derek said, voice dipping into genuine admiration, “is… formidable. In every way a father hopes his daughter becomes. Measured, intelligent, anchored. The kind of person who leads not because she wants to be seen, but because no one else can carry what she does.”

Arya’s lips pressed together faintly, a storm flickering behind his eyes.

Derek watched him a moment longer. Then said, more quietly, “She’s not just your daughter, Arya. She’s her own force. I thought perhaps someone ought to tell you— not as a business courtesy, but as a father.”

There was a long silence. A deeper one.

Arya finally set down his glass, folding his hands. “She’s… been through a great deal,” he said, measured. “She doesn’t speak of personal matters easily.”

“I know,” Derek said. “That’s how you know she carries them.”

He gave Arya a long look. “I don’t presume to speak for Winston,” he continued. “But he’s not reckless with things he values. If your daughter is one of them, I trust he sees all of her— not just the fragments most people praise.”

Derek’s lips curved gently. “He’s always seen beauty that way. Not loud. Just certain.”

Arya inhaled deeply and gave a slow nod. “Thank you for speaking to me directly.” Derek’s eyes softened. “If it’s any comfort… Clarissa seems far more prepared to belong to a family like ours than we were ready to receive someone like her.”

Arya let out a quiet breath. “She always did run ahead of us.”

The late afternoon breeze had cooled, but neither man noticed. Below, soft music from the gala hall murmured like an afterthought, too far and too polite to interrupt what now sat between them: grief, raw and shared.

Derek tilted his glass, letting the drink settle without sipping. His gaze was steady, gentle. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Arya… How is Clarissa holding up these days?”

Arya looked down at his hands. “After the crash… she was unscathed. Harvey died instantly. Heart attack during driving. They were coming back from dinner with a friend— he insisted on driving, even though she offered.”

He swallowed hard.

“They were supposed to be married in weeks.” Derek remained sileny— reverent, listening. “She wouldn’t leave his side at the funeral,” Arya continued, voice now edged with heartbreak. “She knelt by the casket the entire time. Wouldn’t let them close it. Said she needed to see him. That she’d wake him up.”

A beat passed. Arya’s eyes were glassy now, though his voice remained even— too even. “She collapsed three times. Once when they tried to move her from the chapel. Twice again at the burial site. I had to carry her back into the car myself.”

Derek closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight. “She didn’t sleep for days after. Just wept. Walked the halls at night. We found her curled on the rug of his old apartment. Wearing his shirt. Holding his photo. Whispering his name.”

Arya’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it through his hair. “She begged me not to let anyone take his things away. Asked me to keep his scent on the pillows. When I touched the frames, she screamed. Like I was erasing him.”

Derek finally whispered, “My God…”

“And after that—” Arya’s voice faltered just slightly, then steadied again, “—she stopped eating. Stopped speaking. Can’t speak. Can’t walk. I thought grief had finished her, until the night she locked herself in her own house.”

Derek’s eyes widened. Arya nodded grimly. “Sleeping pills. I broke the door down just in time.”

There was nothing in the world more devastating than a father recounting how close he came to losing his child. After a long silence, Arya murmured, “Now she hides in work. Took control of the hotel arm again. Took back her university seat. Fills her calendar to the brim. Speaks at panels, flies across Asia, runs board meetings.”

Derek asked softly, “And still cries?”

Arya’s jaw clenched. “Yes. Quietly. Alone. Every night.”

Derek looked out into the horizon, struggling to speak. “My wife… she nearly disappeared into her own grief once. She lost her sister when they were teenagers. She still talks about how it made her feel unreal for years. Winston grew up knowing what sadness doesn’t say out loud. He… doesn’t fix. He just stays.”

Arya finally looked at him, something fragile in his eyes. Derek added, “If your daughter needs someone who won’t be scared by what she’s carrying, I think Winston’s already made that decision.”

The silence that followed was long, not heavy, but full of understanding. Of pain shared between two men who loved deeply, watched the ones they loved suffer, and could only hope they’d find their way back. And for the first time that evening, Arya’s shoulders loosened— not from relief, but from knowing he wasn’t alone.

The sky had dipped into a velvety blue now, and the warm gold light of the terrace lanterns threw gentle shadows between the two men. The sound of distant jazz music wafted in from the reception hall, but the world on the balcony felt still, private, unspoken grief and paternal love binding them in a quiet communion.

Arya had gone silent for a while after recounting the weight of Clarissa’s devastation. His hands rested on the balustrade, fingers curling slightly, as if anchoring himself in place. Then, without looking at Derek, he spoke again— voice low and deliberate.

“I’ve made mistakes with her,” he said, as if the words had been waiting in his chest for years. “Too many. Some I tried to correct. Some… I only realized when it was far too late.”

Derek turned to him, giving the moment his full attention.

“I let her carry too much,” Arya continued. “The company. The family. The loneliness. I thought by keeping her busy, by expecting excellence, I was helping her rise above what hurt. But I was only carving her into a version of herself I wanted— not one she needed to be.”

There was a painful pause. “

And I let Kirana—” Arya exhaled hard. “I let my second wife outcast her. Belittle her. Whisper poison in the house where Clarissa should have felt safe.”

Derek’s expression tightened with quiet understanding. “I didn’t stop it in time. I was cowardly. Blind. Maybe both. And by the time I realized what it was doing to her, Clarissa had already learned to wear silence like armor.”

Arya finally turned to face him. “She grew up carrying the disappointment of others and hiding her own pain just to be allowed in the room.”

Derek said softly, “But she became extraordinary despite it.”

Arya nodded once. “Yes. And also because of it. But it broke parts of her. The wrong parts.” There was a brief silence, heavy with regret. Then Arya continued, voice steadier now.

“If Winston is anything like you, Derek… If he carries the same gentleness— not the kind that’s soft, but the kind that stays through storms, then maybe… just maybe…” He stopped, letting the thought hang. “She might still have a chance.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. Arya leaned against the balcony, eyes distant. “I don’t want to force her into anything again. Not even happiness. I’ve done enough forcing for a lifetime. This time, it has to be her choice— wholly hers.”

“And yet,” he added, glancing back at Derek with a quiet smile, “if what I’ve heard in your words all evening wasn’t accidental— if you’ve been gently asking what I think you’ve been asking— then I won’t resist it.”

Derek’s mouth curved in the faintest smile, but he didn’t interrupt. “I won’t stop something good from entering her life. Especially if it’s the kind of good that doesn’t come with a burden,” Arya said. “What I can do… is set up a meeting. A setting where they cross paths without expectation. Winston has already seen who she is. If she chooses to let him see more— then it’s hers to give.”

“And if not?” Derek asked gently. Arya exhaled, a soft ache in his voice. “Then at least I did not decide for her.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment before he said, “Then let’s give her that space. And if she says yes, know that Melissa and I would welcome her not just as our son’s partner— but as our own. Clarissa isn’t a risk to our family. She’s a light.”

Arya’s jaw tightened faintly— an effort to hold back the emotion swelling behind his calm. “Then let’s let the children decide,” he murmured. “But this time, let them do it with freedom.”

And under the evening sky of a city built on power, pride, and inherited weight, two fathers —flawed and weathered, yet fiercely devoted— sealed a silent pact: 𝙏𝙤 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙣, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙.

The night had settled fully now. The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses from the gala inside became nothing more than background noise, lost to the gravity of what passed between the two men standing on the terrace.

Arya leaned forward, arms resting against the marble banister. His voice had softened, no longer weighed by anger or regret— just a tired honesty that came only with age and loss.

You know,” he murmured, “when Clarissa was little, she was... different. Not just smart. She saw things. Noticed what others didn’t. Quiet child, but deeply alert. I used to think that was a blessing. I only realized much later that it was a kind of burden too.”

Derek listened intently, hands wrapped around his half-finished glass of wine.

“She learned to read rooms before she could fully read books,” Arya went on. “She knew when to speak and when to disappear. Especially after her mother passed.”

A pause.

“And I wasn’t there as much as I should have been. I thought I was building a legacy for her. But I missed how lonely she was growing up in a house that kept expecting her to be more— and punished her for already being enough.”

Derek's brow furrowed, not in judgment, but in sympathy. “It’s a hard thing. Wanting to give your children the world while not realizing the world they really needed was… you.” Arya nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

There was a long silence between them, not uncomfortable, but full of quiet understanding. Fathers who had loved deeply, failed sometimes, and still showed up.

“I’ll tell you something I’ve never said out loud,” Derek offered after a beat. “Winston... he was the best thing to ever happen to Melissa and me. And I say that knowing he’s not our blood. We adopted him when he was five. I remember the day vividly. He had these big eyes and didn’t say a word the entire car ride home. Just clutched that tiny backpack like it was all he had left in the world.”

Arya turned toward him with a new kind of softness.

“We never hid it from him, where he came from. What he lost. But we made a promise that whatever he chose to become, we’d stand behind it. No conditions. No expectations. I think that’s why he became the man he is.”

“You gave him space,” Arya said thoughtfully.

“We gave him 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯,” Derek corrected gently. ���To be messy. To get it wrong. To try again. Melissa and I— we didn’t want a perfect son. We wanted him.”

Arya let out a slow breath, the words landing with more weight than Derek probably realized.

“I sometimes wonder if Clarissa would’ve smiled more,” Arya said, “if I’d given her that same freedom.”

“You still can,” Derek said quietly. “Maybe not as a child. But now, as a woman. You don’t need to protect her from the world anymore. You just need to make sure the world she chooses doesn’t hurt her again.”

Arya didn’t reply right away. He just looked out into the sky— Jakarta’s distant city lights blinking like scattered promises in the dark. “I’m afraid of one more heartbreak finishing her.”

“And I’m afraid,” Derek answered, “that shielding her from love might finish her first.”

The words sat between them like truth neither of them could refute.

“You trust your son?” Arya finally asked.

“With everything,” Derek said simply. “But more importantly, he’s the kind of man who will ask Clarissa what she wants. And he’ll mean it.”

Arya closed his eyes briefly. That was all he had ever hoped for her, someone who would ask, and listen.

“I can arrange a quiet meeting,” he said. “A shared dinner. No pressure. Just... proximity. If there’s still something between them, let it breathe.” Derek smiled faintly. “And if there isn’t?”

“Then I’ll still thank you for tonight,” Arya said. “For seeing her.”

Derek nodded, setting his glass down gently on the marble edge. “And thank you for trusting me with the truth of her. Not the headlines. Not the name. The girl behind the legacy.”

They stood in the silence of men who had carried children on their shoulders, then had to learn to let them walk forward alone. And though no decisions had been made, no promises spoken aloud, the quiet pact between two fathers was complete: Let the children choose— but clear the path so they could do so without fear.

END.

[siltrace]

Her Thoughts

ㅤ ㅤ | 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗼𝗻 𝗕𝗮𝘆 𝗛𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗹, 𝗦𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗿𝗲 ㅤ ㅤ 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦

The room was quiet except for the gentle ticking of a Cartier wall clock and the distant thrum of traffic over Marina Bay. Through the expansive glass windows, the city shimmered in reflection, casting fractured lights across the lacquered floors and soft carpet. The suite, perfectly arranged, bore no sign of its guests’ thoughts— but Melissa Langford’s still form gave her away.

She sat on the chaise longue near the corner window, shoulders tucked into a shawl the color of smoke. Her hair, usually set in sleek coils, was slightly undone— soft wisps loose around her temples. Her bare feet rested against the edge of the chaise.

In her hands, an untouched glass of Dom Ruinart. When Derek entered from the adjoining room, he paused at the threshold. His gaze softened. His wife was not often still. Not like this. Stillness meant she was thinking. And when Melissa Langford thought in silence, she was usually revisiting ghosts.

“Long day?” he asked, his voice deep, measured. Melissa didn’t look up. “I saw her.”

A beat. Derek poured himself a glass of Yamazaki and sat in the armchair across from her.

“Clarissa.”

She nodded. “She was one of the speakers. I didn’t even realize it until the moderator thanked her. I walked in halfway.”

“She notice you?”

“No,” Melissa said softly. “She didn’t know who I was.”

Her fingers circled the rim of the champagne flute. “She just smiled. Said thank you. Moved on. Like I was any other academic in the audience.”

“And how did that feel?” Derek asked, his voice gentle. Melissa was quiet for a long moment. Then she whispered, “It felt like looking at a version of myself I thought I’d buried.”

Derek leaned back slowly.

“She’s so composed,” Melissa murmured. “Elegant without effort. Speaks like someone who weighs every word because she knows how little it takes to be misunderstood. She’s brilliant but she hides it just enough to avoid looking threatening.”

She looked up finally. “You know what kind of woman learns to do that?”

Derek answered, “The kind raised in rooms where men talk louder the smarter she gets.”

Melissa gave a thin smile. “Exactly.”

She exhaled, setting the untouched drink aside.

“She didn’t mention Winston once,” Melissa said suddenly. “Not even in passing. It was as if he didn’t exist.”

Derek raised his brow. “That’s unusual.”

“She’s protecting herself,” Melissa said. “She’s not the kind of woman who wears vulnerability. She’s learned that softness is used against you.”

“You recognize that.”

“I lived it,” Melissa said. Her voice cracked on the edges of the words. “And I still live with what it did to me.”

She looked out the window again, the city reflected faintly in her eyes. “She reminds me of who I was before I learned how to hide my pain behind polished lectures and fine silk,” she whispered. “Before I learned how to walk into a boardroom smiling while bleeding from the inside.”

Derek leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“You’re afraid for her.”

“I’m afraid of what we might do to her,” Melissa said. “Of what the Langford and Spencer names might demand of her. Of what loving our son might cost.”

Derek’s voice was soft. “Winston isn’t the Langford-Spencer name. He’s more than that.”

“But the world doesn’t care,” Melissa shot back. “The money, the legacy... it swallows people whole. You think I didn’t have dreams? Before I became the perfect Langford wife? You think I didn’t wonder what kind of mother I’d be— if I ever had the chance?”

Derek’s throat moved. He said nothing.

“I see her, and I see everything I could have been, if I had someone see me sooner.” Melissa’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “If I’d been loved, not preserved.”

Derek’s hand reached across the space and folded around hers. “You were loved.”

She met his eyes. “Eventually. After I stopped asking for it.”

Derek’s eyes darkened. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m doing it to her. In my head. Over and over. I’m imagining Clarissa becoming a ghost in her own house. Smiling through holiday photos. Silencing herself at dinner. Folding in her edges until there’s nothing left of the woman Winston loved.”

Derek was quiet. Melissa leaned forward, finally picking up the champagne. “But she’s not me,” she said quietly. “She’s stronger than I was. Smarter, maybe.”

“She’s alone,” Derek said. “That’s not strength. That’s survival.”

Melissa turned her face slightly toward him. “She doesn’t need a mirror, Derek. She needs a door.”

Derek’s hand brushed hers again, his thumb grazing the skin gently. “Then let her in.”

Melissa took a sip. “What if she doesn’t want in?”

Derek met her gaze with the calm that only came from decades together. “Then love her anyway. From wherever she stands.”

Melissa smiled, tired but soft. “I married a poet and didn’t know it.”

“You married a man who saw you when no one else dared,” he corrected. “Now be that woman for her.”

Melissa looked down at their hands —his larger, weathered one gently cradling hers— and gave a small, final nod. “She won’t break under this house,” she whispered. “Not if I can help it.”

And Derek, holding her gaze with quiet faith, replied, “You’ll help her build a new one.”

END.

[siltrace]

Across Each Other

ㅤ ㅤ | 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘉𝘢𝘺 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦, 𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘦

The high ceilings of the Marina Bay convention center echoed with the murmur of intellectuals and creatives. Coffee stations, touchscreens, and polished shoes lined the arpeted halls. Melissa Langford entered with the confidence of a woman used to being the one watched— but today, she came incognito.

Her name badge read simply: M. Spencer – University of London, Faculty of Fine Arts. No honorifics, no fuss.

She had declined the invitation to speak, choosing instead to absorb, observe— and perhaps quietly assess where the field was heading. Her plan was to enter a panel titled: “Cross-Disciplinary Narratives in Southeast Asian Visual Design.”

She checked her watch: 10:42 AM. Running late. The door was already half-closed. Melissa slipped into the dim auditorium, heels muted against the carpet. She scanned the space quickly — about 80 people, all eyes forward. She settled in near the back row, smoothing her cream blouse and crossing her legs, prepared to tune in just as the current speaker’s voice flowed over the room.

“…the work of a visual communicator in this region isn't just to respond, but to reframe,” came a crisp voice from the stage. “Too much of our inherited aesthetic relies on colonial idealism masked as minimalism. Our job is not to beautify trauma, but to distill it without apology.”

Melissa blinked, then leaned slightly forward. That voice.

Measured. Elegant. A slight accent— Korean-tinged English with the cadence of someone who thought before every word. She reached for the small program in her bag and scanned the panel list again.

𝗖. 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮 – 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿, 𝗩𝗶𝘀��𝗮𝗹 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻, 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮. 𝗦𝗲𝗼𝘂𝗹 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆.

Melissa’s eyes slowly rose back to the stage. There stood a woman in her late 30s, hair pulled into a smooth twist, dressed in a sharp gray blazer and a crisp ivory top. No notes in hand, just a quiet command over the space. Behind her, a projection of textile layering techniques used in Balinese architectural visual branding.

It took Melissa a few seconds to connect the dots.

Clarissa. 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗮.

The same name from the dossier Halvorsen had brought her in London. The woman her son Winston had been… seeing. Working with. Visiting. Defending.

Melissa straightened, lips tightening. This woman—this speaker—was 𝘩𝘦𝘳?

Onstage, Clarissa clicked calmly to the next slide. “We’re not just telling stories through design. We’re revealing what our regions have been too polite to say aloud. That’s where visual communication becomes cultural disruption.”

A soft rustle of nods moved through the crowd. Melissa remained stone still. But her eyes never left Clarissa. And yet… Clarissa didn’t so much as glance her way.

Of course not.

Melissa hadn’t used her full name. Her badge bore no titles. She was just another attendee— anonymous in a room full of thinkers.

Clarissa spoke with conviction, not charisma. There was no theatricality in her presence, but it was striking all the same. Her poise was precise. Her analysis— sharp. Melissa found herself, despite everything, listening. Not just as a mother, not just as a skeptic— but as a peer.

The lady in grey moved to her final slide. A quiet, powerful image: a reconstructed Batik pattern layered with digital type, reimagining local craft as contemporary protest.

“In the end,” Clarissa said softly, “design is how we reclaim voice. Sometimes even before language returns.”

Polite, reflective applause followed. Melissa didn’t join in. Not yet.

She just watched as Clarissa stepped down from the podium and took her seat with the other panelists, composed as ever. The moderator opened the floor to questions. A hand went up in the front row. Another from the center. Clarissa leaned forward, answering with quiet depth.

Melissa sat in the back, silent. She didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t need to. Clarissa hadn’t recognized her. And that, Melissa realized, was a rare and dangerous thing: to be unknown in a room by the very person you came to judge.

She didn’t yet know what she thought of Clarissa Madhava. But the field had changed. And so had the game. The panel dispersed slowly— murmurs of admiration, brief applause, a few attendees lining up to speak with the other panelists.

Clarissa remained gracious but distant, answering questions with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Professional warmth. Nothing more.

Melissa stayed seated at the back, her hands folded neatly over her program booklet. She hadn’t clapped. She hadn’t needed to. Her eyes remained fixed on Clarissa as the crowd thinned. That’s her, Melissa thought, not with surprise anymore— but with recalibration. She studied the way Clarissa gently avoided extended conversation, slipping away with subtle skill.

The woman was clearly practiced at navigating professional spaces and at keeping a part of herself tucked out of reach. Melissa didn’t move even after Clarissa exited the room through the side corridor, her figure disappearing into the hallway light.

Instead, she waited.

The next session on her agenda didn’t start for another hour. She had every reason to leave— but she didn’t. Instead, she stepped out of the auditorium, heels clicking softly, and made her way through the concourse until she reached the symposium lounge. Neutral ground for speakers and senior faculty, press, and patrons. She had access by title and standing alone, but today she entered simply as an observer.

A waiter greeted her with a bow.

“Ma’am.” “Just water,” she said softly.

The lounge was half-empty. Perfect. She took a seat in the corner facing the entrance. Removed her badge. Set her tablet aside. And waited. Not out of calculation. Out of instinct. Whatever doubts Melissa had carried about Clarissa Madhava —whether she was good enough, young enough, fertile enough— had been momentarily overshadowed by something else: curiosity.

The kind that couldn’t be answered by a dossier. She crossed her legs slowly, sipped her water, and watched the hours pass in a wash of warm light, shifting conversations, and quiet judgment. Until, at last, a familiar figure stepped through the glass door.

Clarissa. And this time, they were only one table apart.

Clarissa returned to her designated seat with her coffee. The man who had waved her over earlier had only needed her signature on a group note from the Seoul delegation. A small ask, quickly handled.

She glanced toward the woman at the next table— still seated, still watching. Something about her presence carried the poise of someone who'd spent decades owning boardrooms and classrooms alike. A quiet elegance. A type Clarissa was more than familiar with.

She offered another polite smile, about to return to her emails, when the woman spoke. “Do you often speak at conferences like this?” the woman asked, her tone cool but not unfriendly. Clarissa looked up. “Not often. Not because I don’t enjoy them— I do. But time is a luxury these days. Administrative duties keep expanding.”

Melissa tilted her head slightly. “University leadership?”

Clarissa gave a small nod. “Rector at the University of Madhava. Lecturer of Visual Communication division.”

Melissa gave no outward reaction. But internally, she absorbed the weight of the title. She already knew this, of course, it had been in the file. But hearing it firsthand —spoken without vanity— carried a different edge.

“You wear it lightly,” Melissa remarked.

Clarissa’s smile was faint but present. “Titles are heavy when you grip them too tightly.”

Melissa let out a soft sound— something between a chuckle and a hum. “Wise.”

She sipped her water. Then, with casual precision, added, “And the other hat? I heard mention of business as well.” Clarissa paused for the briefest second. “Yes. My family manages some businesses. I stepped in this year when some restructuring was needed. I still serve as executive director in one, though most of the daily operations are with the Bali team.”

Melissa’s lips parted just slightly— interested, but unreadable. “Impressive.”

Clarissa let the compliment hang. “There are a lot of impressive women here today.”

“But not many who do both.”

This time, Clarissa didn’t answer right away.

Melissa leaned back in her seat. She wasn’t smiling, but something in her gaze had sharpened. “And you?” Clarissa asked lightly. “You’ve clearly seen a few panels like this.”

“Too many,” Melissa replied, almost amused. “Professor of Fine Arts. Emeritus. Based in London. Sometimes US. I’m mostly here to observe.” Clarissa tilted her head. “Spencer, you said?”

“Yes.”

Still no flicker of recognition from Clarissa. Melissa noted it again. Clarissa continued, “I know a Fiona Spencer. She used to curate for the Venice Triennale.”

“Distant cousin,” Melissa replied, then smiled politely. “We multiply.”

Clarissa returned the smile, then checked the time subtly on her phone. “I should get going. I have a follow-up with some of the students presenting tomorrow.”

Melissa nodded, her voice softer this time. “You’re quite… centered.”

Clarissa glanced up again. Melissa continued, “You carry silence well. Most people fill it with apologies or explanations.”

The younger lady took a moment before responding. “I’ve learned that silence reveals more than noise ever could.”

Melissa looked at her for a long moment. “I hope we meet again, Professor Madhava.”

Clarissa rose with quiet grace. “Likewise, Professor Spencer.”

Then she turned, walked away— calm, unreadable, and still unaware of who she had just spoken to. Melissa sat in the quiet that followed, lifting her water again. The aftertaste wasn’t from the drink. It was from the realization that she liked Clarissa more than she’d expected. And that made everything infinitely more complicated.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

[siltrace]

The Morning Silence

The Langford solarium was awash in pale morning light. Sunlight pooled across the white-marble-tiled floor, glinting off the crystal decanter Melissa had filled with elderflower water hours ago. The air held the faint scent of lavender polish and hydrangeas.

Not a pillow out of place. Not a speck of dust. Immaculate— much like the woman who sat at the head of the breakfast table, unmoving. Melissa Langford, queen of silent judgments.

Winston entered quietly. Still slightly flushed from his morning run— though any trained observer would’ve noted the sweat wasn’t fresh, and the towel slung over his shoulder was more for show than need. The faint scent of women’s perfume lingered on him— not strong, but unmistakably not from the Langford household.

Something floral, layered with amber. Sophisticated. Melissa didn’t need to guess. She glanced at him briefly, then gestured toward the seat opposite her.

“Sit.”

Her tone wasn’t harsh— but Winston had grown up learning that Melissa’s real power came from what she didn’t say. He sat, exhaling through his nose, dragging the antique chair back with a quiet scrape. He rested his forearms lightly on the edge of the table, preparing himself— but not defending.

Melissa folded her hands, rested her wrists on the porcelain saucer in front of her, and said coolly, “I know who she is.”

He didn’t flinch. “Who?”

“Clarissa Madhava,” she confirmed, as if speaking the full name was necessary for the weight of it. “Daughter of Arya Madhava, heir to one of the most discreetly powerful old-money families in Southeast Asia. Born in Bali. Educated in Seoul. Head of the university by thirty-eight. Now CEO of the family’s hotel. I imagine you already know all of this.”

“I do,” Winston said quietly. Melissa continued.

“𝘞𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 once. Engaged once before that. One lost to cowardice who then died in a car crash. No confirmed relationships since. And before you get clever and tell me I’ve invaded her privacy— don’t bother. You made her our business the moment you started spending your day at her home.”

Still, Winston said nothing. Though it's not true, the latter part.

“She’s elegant,” Melissa went on, voice clipped. “Speaks four languages. Commands a room with a glance. Doesn’t chase— which of course is why you’re chasing her.”

A flicker of amusement passed over Winston’s face. “That’s not why.”

“She’s thirty-nine,” Melissa snapped, the restraint starting to crack beneath her careful composure. Winston’s brows lifted slightly, unimpressed. “And?”

Melissa leaned forward just slightly, her voice dropping to that precise tone she reserved for things that were not to be misunderstood. “You’re forty-two, Winston. You’ve spoken —more than once— about wanting children. You’ve always said you wanted the kind of life that leaves something behind. And Clarissa Madhava, as accomplished as she is, may no longer be able to give you that.”

A pause fell between them— taut and quiet. Winston stared at her for a moment, expression unreadable. “You realize what you’re saying, don’t you?”

“I’m saying what no one else will,” she said, not missing a beat. “The facts don’t care that you’re in love. Biology doesn’t adjust for emotional history. Fertility declines rapidly after thirty-five. And you’re talking about building a future with someone who—”

“—is more fertile with purpose than anyone I’ve ever met,” Winston interrupted, voice quiet but cutting.

“Who’s lived ten lives’ worth of responsibility and still carries herself with grace. Who’s earned everything she has without asking for permission.” Melissa narrowed her eyes. “That isn’t what this is about.”

“Then tell me what it’s 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 about,” Winston said, sharper now. “Because I was under the impression we didn’t build families in this house based on wombs.”

Silence. Melissa’s jaw locked. The words struck deeper than she expected— not because they were wrong, but because they hit a buried truth. “You were adopted,” she said finally, softly but stiffly. “Yes. But don’t pretend that wasn’t a calculated act of love.”

“I’m not,” Winston said. “But you’re pretending we got here through tradition. You think bloodlines matter now? Where was that urgency when you took in a boy with no name and raised him in a house that reminded him every day he didn’t come from it?”

Melissa’s mouth opened— then closed.

“I love you,” Winston said, quieter now. “I do. But I’m not going to punish the woman I love because she might not be able to give me something you never could either.” Melissa looked away for the first time.

“Clarissa didn’t ask for this,” Winston added. “She’s not trying to become a Langford. She’s not asking for our name. She’s just... existing. Surviving.”

Melissa was still silent. And Winston finished, “Maybe you’re afraid she’s everything you were trying to be— but never had the space to become.”

That line hit its mark. For a second, her expression cracked. Something flashed behind her eyes— grief, maybe. Resentment. Regret. But she recovered, as always.

“She’s built a fortress,” Melissa said finally. “Not a home.”

“Then maybe I’m tired of homes that collapse,” Winston replied.

And he rose. Calm. Composed. As if the verdict had been passed. He paused at the archway. Turned slightly. “You taught me to think. Not to obey. This is me thinking. And choosing.”

He left.

Melissa sat alone, staring into her cold tea. The room felt somehow more sterile now, emptier. The woman she had raised had spoken back— not out of rebellion, but clarity. And that clarity had left her shaken.

Later that evening, the sun had dipped behind the tree line, casting the Langford estate in a mellow orange hue. Shadows stretched across the west veranda where Derek Langford sat alone, legs crossed, a lowball glass of bourbon cupped lazily in his hand. He didn’t look up when he heard the door creak open. Melissa stepped out quietly, her silk robe trailing behind her like fog. She didn’t speak. She rarely did when her thoughts had unsettled her. She stood for a long while at the edge of the balustrade, watching the magnolias sway.

“You were hard on him,” Derek said, not looking at her. Melissa's shoulders stiffened. “I was direct.”

“That’s one word for it,” he murmured. She crossed to the rattan chair beside him, lowering herself slowly, every motion carefully composed— though her fingers were tight around the armrest.

“I had Halvorsen run another full background. Everything.”

“I figured,” Derek said, sipping. “You always go to war fully armed.”

She looked at him sharply, but he wasn’t mocking her. Just observing— like he always did. “She’s old,” Melissa said after a moment. Derek gave a quiet chuckle. “Melissa. He’s in his forties.”

“She’s been through... tragedy,” she added quickly, almost defensively.

“Engaged. 𝘞𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥. She’s—” Melissa paused, lips twitching, unsure how to define a woman she couldn’t easily label. “She’s so... composed.”

“And that bothers you?” he asked, finally turning to her. “Or does it just remind you of yourself?”

Melissa didn’t answer.

Derek studied her more closely now — the slight tightness at the corners of her eyes, the way she hadn’t touched the tea she brought out with her. She looked regal. As always. But tense in a way only he would recognize.

“She might not be able to give him children,” Melissa said quietly. “And we did?” Derek asked, tilting his glass. “You and I?”

Melissa flinched. “That wasn’t fair,” she said after a beat, voice thin.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Derek replied, more gently this time “But it was true.”

She looked away. “I just want him to have a future,” she said, barely above a whisper. “A real one. Something... lasting."

Derek smiled faintly, watching the golden light slip across her cheekbones. “You mean a legacy.”

She didn’t deny it.

“He is our legacy,” Derek said simply. “Blood or not.”

Melissa closed her eyes for a moment, her mask slipping. “I didn’t expect it to hurt like this,” she confessed. “Watching him choose someone. And not needing my permission.”

Derek leaned back with a soft exhale. “That’s not the pain of a matriarch being disobeyed, Mel. That’s the pain of a mother whose boy grew up.”

Silence fell between them again, this time less sharp— more solemn.

“You know it,” Derek added, almost thoughtfully, “That I've met Arya once. At a meeting in Jakarta. Smart man. Measured. Quiet, but dangerous when cornered. Reminded me of you, actually.”

Melissa blinked at him.

“He had the kind of presence that didn’t need explanation,” Derek said. “Which tells me Clarissa’s not far from the tree.”

Melissa’s voice was quiet. “That’s what scares me.”

Derek turned his head, surprised. “That she’s like him?”

“No,” she said slowly. “That she’s like me.”

She rose before he could respond, leaving her tea untouched. “Don’t wait up,” she said softly. “I need to think.”

And she disappeared back into the house, a ghost of her younger self trailing in her wake— proud, calculating, wounded. Derek swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the light fracture across its surface.

“She’ll be the one,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Whether you like it or not.”

And he drank to that.

END.

[siltrace]

The Langford Report

The sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Langfords’ private study, casting a mellow glow across the polished surfaces and old-money opulence. Dust motes floated like whispers in the golden light, dancing above the mahogany desk and the gilded edges of a hundred curated volumes. The air smelled faintly of rosewood, aged leather, and quiet power.

Melissa Langford sat upright at the desk— not lounging as she did in the drawing room, but poised, spine straight, fingers steepled beneath her chin. Her expression was fixed in the kind of stillness that unnerved even the most seasoned staff.

In front of her lay a thick, black dossier. Pristine. Weighted.

Mr. Halvorsen, the senior of the two detectives she had hired, stood on the opposite side of the desk.

He didn’t sit. No one did, when she was in that particular mood — thoughtful, but simmering. She flipped open the folder with practiced fingers, letting the pages speak before he did.

A color photo of Clarissa at a university conference: composed, gesturing mid-speech behind a modern podium, eyes sharp. Another of her in a navy blazer, cutting a ribbon with government officials at what appeared to be a new campus wing. A third —perhaps the most revealing— a candid shot of Clarissa stepping out of a sleek black car, designer handbag slung at her side, surrounded by aides. She wasn’t looking at the camera. She didn’t need to. She radiated control.

Melissa narrowed her eyes.

Halvorsen cleared his throat carefully. “We dug deeper, as requested.”

She looked up slowly. “Tell me everything.”

He began without flourish. “Clarissa Madhava. Born in Bali, Indonesia. Only daughter of Arya Madhava and his late wife, Tatya. Her mother passed when she was around two or three— cancer. Arya later remarried Kirana, now the head of the family’s high jewelry business. From what we found, the relationship between Clarissa and her stepmother is… strained. Estranged, possibly permanently.”

Melissa said nothing — just tilted her head slightly.

Halvorsen continued, sensing the gravity of what he was about to deliver. “The Madhava family is one of Indonesia’s old-line conglomerate houses. Legacy wealth, diversified investments. The father, Arya, is CEO of Madhava Herbalife— an empire built on traditional medicine and modern pharmacology. Highly respected. Quiet operator. Not flashy. Global reach.”

He turned a page. “Clarissa inherited significant ones. And this year, she took over the board chair of The Griya Madhava, the hospitality wing. It’s a high-luxury brand— tropical properties, eco-centric designs, discreet celebrity clientele. This year, as her family’s university rector. The one Mr. Langford works part-time,” Melissa’s brows lifted, a flicker of surprise betraying her usually composed features.

“There’s more,” Halvorsen said. “She’s also an academic. Seoul National University— top of her class, then stayed on for a PhD in visual communication design. She returned to Indonesia a year ago, was brought on by her first alma mater, and now —as of six months go— she’s its youngest-ever rector. In her late thirties”

Melissa’s lips parted slightly. Not just beautiful. Not just accomplished. But prodigious. “And no scandals?” she asked, skeptical.

Halvorsen shook his head. “None that we could verify. There is... emotional history. She was once engaged— to Harvey Tanuwidjaya, heir to the Tan Group. Chairman of Indonesia’s trading committee. She was her student. He lectured her during her bachelor studies, engaged, then broke up. It was a significant media story when they got back together after a long breakup. But weeks before the wedding, they were in a car crash. He didn’t survive. Last April.”

“She did,” Melissa murmured.

“She did,” Halvorsen confirmed. “Slight injuries. Now still in recovery. But after that... silence. She never spoke publicly about it. Declined interviews. Before Harvey, she dated Christian Limanjaya, another heir to a big company.”

Melissa closed the folder slowly. Her jaw was tight.

The image she had built in her mind —some wide-eyed academic flirt clinging to Winston’s coattails— crumbled. This woman, this Clarissa Madhava, was more than a distraction. She was an institution. With war scars, financial autonomy, and a name powerful enough to matter across borders.

“And Winston?” Melissa asked after a long pause. “Does he know?”

Halvorsen hesitated. “We believe so. He’s been discreet, but consistent. He visits her office often. Attended one of her closed panels last month. And today... he was seen at her home. Alone. For nearly three hours.”

Melissa stared at the dossier. It felt heavier now. She closed the folder slowly. Her jaw had tightened, but her eyes had taken on a new gleam— not hostility, not quite. Something sharper. Evaluative.

“She’s not in your league, ma’am,” Halvorsen had said. “She’s in her own.”

Melissa tapped one manicured nail against the edge of the dossier. “Winston?” she asked, her voice cool but expectant.

Halvorsen glanced at his notes. “He’s been the one pursuing her. Consistently. Subtly, but with clear intention. Campus visits. Invitations to research panels. Coffee meetings disguised as academic collaborations. They’re professional in public— overly so. But there’s familiarity.”

Melissa's gaze flicked back to the photograph of Clarissa in the navy blazer, flanked by officials, smiling tightly. “She lets him?” she asked.

“To a point,” Halvorsen replied. “But it’s... complicated. She keeps boundaries. Refuses any public outings that aren’t work-related. She’s polite, never cold, but never quite lets him in. It's likely because of the trauma— her fiancé’s death is still recent. Less than three months.”

Melissa hummed. Not with sympathy— but recognition. Emotional debris had a way of lingering, no matter how accomplished a woman was.

“She’s not the kind to be swept off her feet,” she murmured. “She’s too scared. Too... engineered.”

“She’s guarded, yes. But not brittle,” Halvorsen said carefully. “More like she’s put her heart in quarantine. For now.”

Just then, the door creaked open. Derek Langford stepped in, unhurried, a glass of sparkling water in hand, having traded his morning jacket for a softer linen one. He took one look at Melissa, then at the open file on the desk, and gave a knowing little smirk.

“Still tracking the woman our son’s been hovering around like a lovesick assistant professor?” Melissa didn’t bother replying.

Derek wandered closer, glancing down at the photograph on top — Clarissa stepping out of the black car, sunlight catching the side of her face, the confident curve of her stride unmistakable.

“This is her?”

“Clarissa Madhava,” Melissa said crisply. “Daughter of Arya Madhava. Granddaughter of the Indonesia’s Madhava lineages. Academic. The rector, not assistant. CEO. Not what I expected.” Derek gave a small nod.

“She’s... striking. Has presence.”

“She has power,” Melissa corrected. “She’s not chasing Winston. If anything, she’s putting him at arm’s length.”

Derek chuckled. “So he’s the one doing the chasing for once. Good. Builds character.”

Melissa gave him a sharp glance. “You think he can handle her?”

“I think he wants to,” Derek replied, then sipped his drink. “The question is— what is she into? Someone like that doesn’t just want flowers and dinners. She wants vision. Alignment.”

Halvorsen cleared his throat. “If I may— she’s spent the last months rebuilding. After the loss. After the press. She’s surrounded herself with work, governance, legacy projects. She’s creating fortresses.”

“So she’s not ready,” Derek said simply. “No,” Melissa corrected again, softly. “She’s not willing. That’s different.”

She stood, arms folding as she turned toward the window. The glass reflected her expression back at her: thoughtful, but faintly intrigued.

“She’s holding the door closed,” Melissa continued. “But she hasn’t thrown away the key.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “And him?”

Melissa gave a small shrug. “Too smitten to notice the lock. Too arrogant to stop knocking.”

There was a pause. Then Melissa turned back to Halvorsen. “Continue surveillance. Quietly. I want transcripts, not just photos. What she says. What she doesn’t. I want to know if this is a distraction for her— or a decision.”

Halvorsen nodded. “Understood.”

As he left, Derek moved beside Melissa and glanced at the closed folder one last time. “Well,” he said lightly, “If she ever does decide… I hope he’s smart enough to hold on.”

Melissa sipped her tea —still cold— and stared out the window at the long, gleaming rows of roses she’d planted herself.

“She’ll make him bleed first,” she said. “But if he survives that, she might make him a king.”

Melissa’s fingers tapped once more against the edge of the dossier, brows knit in silent thought. She didn’t look up when Derek spoke again, his voice light but lined with something steadier.

“Melissa… chill down,” he said, with the kind of casualness that only a man married for decades could safely wield. “This one— she might actually be the one.”

Melissa’s eyes cut toward him. “You’re that quick to endorse her?”

Derek smiled faintly and took another sip of his sparkling water before setting the glass down with a quiet clink on the edge of her desk. “I’ve met Arya Madhava,” he said. Melissa blinked.

“What?”

“Years ago,” he continued, unbothered by her surprise. “During a regional trade conference in Jakarta. He was on a wellness innovation panel. I was representing our pharma partners out of Singapore. We sat at the same table for two days of negotiations.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes. “You never told me that.”

Derek shrugged. “Didn’t think it mattered. Until now.”

“What was he like?” she asked, still guarded. “Controlled. Polite. Doesn’t speak unless he has to— but when he does, you listen. The room shifted when he spoke. Even the Chinese and Korean delegations deferred to him. He was... impressive.”

Melissa glanced back at the closed folder. Arya’s name had been in there, but she hadn’t thought much of him beyond the summary: CEO, herbal tycoon.

Now, Derek’s words made her reconsider. “He was also,” Derek added, “very protective when someone mentioned his daughter. Wouldn’t even confirm she was in Korea at the time. Just smiled and said, ‘My daughter walks her own path. I don’t steer. I observe.’”

Melissa’s brow lifted.

“I remember that line,” Derek added, more to himself than her. “You don’t forget a father who speaks like that.”

There was a long silence. Melissa slowly lowered herself into her chair again, her mind racing in quieter circles now.

“She walks her own path,” Melissa repeated, softer this time. “Winston may not be the one guiding it,” Derek said, voice calm, “but he’s walking beside her. That counts for something.”

Melissa studied him— her husband of thirty-five years, who rarely intervened when she ran surveillance on their children's lovers, who never objected when she vetted, tested, and occasionally exiled. But now... he wasn’t opposing her. He was simply asking her to see the full picture.

“She’s not perfect,” Melissa murmured. “She’s too disciplined. Too quiet. Women like that bury things.”

“And men like our son fall in love with that quiet,” Derek replied. “Because it makes them feel safe. Or because it makes them curious. Either way… let the boy breathe.”

Melissa exhaled— the first full breath she’d taken since Halvorsen left the room. She reached for the folder again but didn’t open it. This time, she simply rested her palm on top, thoughtful.

“Just don’t let her think I’m already welcoming her,” she said, voice calm.

Derek chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “But maybe,” he added with a teasing smile, “we should invite Arya for dinner sometime.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get carried away.”

END.

[siltrace]

To Be Expected

Clarissa stood at the edge of the hall, watching the white petals as decorations around it. Her brother's second wedding was beautiful, almost painfully so. The kind of wedding that felt like a clean slate. The kind of wedding she was supposed to have once, too.

The champagne flute in her hand trembled slightly, not from the chill of the drink but from the voice that had just slithered into her ear.

“I suppose you’re used to watching by now,” said Kirana, her stepmother, with a smile too sweet to be sincere. She's wearing her signature lavender perfume and a dress two sizes too tight, which she called 'age defiance'. Clarissa didn’t turn to look at her.

“Used to what?”

“To being left out of the vows. First, your fiancé turns out to like men—until suddenly he doesn't—and now even your brother gets a second shot. Meanwhile, you... what’s the word?” Kirana tapped a perfectly manicured nail to her lips. “Oh, right. Spinster.”

Clarissa’s breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t flinch. That would be too satisfying for her.

Kirana clicked her tongue. “What was it after being left right before the wedding? After the 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘫𝘪𝘵? Confusion? Because from where I stood, it looked like he used you to figure himself out. And then tried to come crawling back once he decided you were safe enough to pretend.”

Clarissa’s fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. She remembered the pleading texts, the drunken apology voicemails. How Harvey said she was the only person who ever saw both versions of him and didn’t flinch—until he flinched from her.

“And let's not forget,” Kirana continued, as though sharing juicy gossip at brunch, “how your father almost fainted when you told him you were actually thinking of forgiving Harvey. After everything. Honestly, darling, no wonder you’re still alone.”

Clarissa finally turned. Her eyes met Kirana’s coldly. “You brought all this up today. At a wedding. Your own granddaughter's father just remarried, and you're picking this moment?”

Kirana’s smile faltered for just a breath. “Well,” she said, voice tight, “I simply find it poetic. A wedding is about beginnings. And we all begin somewhere—some with love, some with lies.”

“And some,” Clarissa said, stepping forward, “with bitterness in their throat and a crown of someone else’s grief on their head.”

For a moment, the noise of the party drifted around them. Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the faint music from the hall. Then Clarissa placed her glass on the table beside her and walked away, her heels silent on the carpet.

She didn’t cry this time.

“You know,” Kirana said, sidling closer, following her with that same sugar-and-cyanide smile, “the family never understood why you ran off to Seoul after the first fiasco. No word. No goodbyes. Just vanished like you were too delicate to face us.”

Clarissa didn’t answer. Her eyes were on the rose archway where her brother and his new bride posed for photos. The backdrop was too serene to match the sting in Kirana’s voice.

“Maybe I was,” Clarissa said finally. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to explain myself to people who already made up their minds.”

Kirana scoffed. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You weren’t mysterious. You were embarrassing. Choosing Harvey—of all people. A man who publicly left you once. A man whose loyalty could barely outlast a trend. And you still picked him over Christian. 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯, Clarissa.”

His name came out like a slap. Clarissa blinked slowly.

“You never even 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 Harvey,” she said quietly. “You didn’t know what he was like when it was just us. Before the first collapse."

“I knew enough,” Kirana said sharply. “Enough to know that no man who loves a woman would ever humiliate her twice. First after the 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘫𝘪𝘵, then by dragging her into a death spiral on the freeway.”

Clarissa’s jaw tightened.

“He didn’t ‘drag’ me anywhere. We were going to elope. I said yes. And then he—”

“I know how he died,” Kirana snapped, stepping closer now. “The car hit the guardrail. 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 helped to walk you out of the wreckage. He didn’t. End of story. End of him. But not the end of you, somehow.”

Clarissa turned, eyes like polished glass. “Is that what bothers you most? That I lived?”

A flash of something unreadable passed over Kirana’s face—guilt, maybe, or shame, or the memory of a version of herself that once believed in softness. She recovered with a cruel smirk. “What bothers me is that you keep surviving things you bring on yourself. You had a future with Christian. He loved you—still does, in his own pathetic way. But no, you wanted the broken boy with the beautiful lies.”

Clarissa’s lips parted to speak, then closed again. For once, not because she had no words, but because Kirana wasn’t worth the truth.

“You never asked why I left,” she said instead. “None of you did. You just decided I must’ve run. But I wasn’t running from shame. I was protecting what little of myself was left.”

Kirana rolled her eyes. “Spare me the drama.”

“I’m not here to perform for you. I came back because it’s my brother’s wedding. Not because I owe anyone an explanation. Least of all you.”

“You’re still that scared girl hiding behind foreign degrees and dead men’s promises,” Kirana said, voice low, venomous. “And now, you’re alone. No ring. No children. No redemption. Just scars and ghosts.”

Clarissa stared at her, unblinking. “And yet I still have more peace than you.”

That silenced Kirana for a beat too long.

Clarissa stepped away without a word. She didn’t look back. Behind her, Kirana stood stiffly, like someone who had built her whole sense of superiority on the ruins of other people’s mistakes—and now couldn’t understand why Clarissa wasn’t collapsing under it anymore.

Kirana spotted Arya standing near the seats, his posture stiff but dignified, hands folded behind his back. He was watching Clarissa from afar—watching the way she stood by herself near the hydrangeas, away from the buzz, like she didn’t belong to any of it.

Kirana approached, heels ticking softly against the floor. “She hasn’t changed,” she said airily. “Still drifting through life like a ghost at someone else’s party.”

Arya didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on Clarissa. Kirana went on, voice sweetened with false concern. “She’s older now, Arya. You know that. You can’t keep pretending this phase will pass. No husband. No family of her own. She rejects perfectly decent men left and right. For what? A man who couldn’t even decide what he wanted? A man who died—after disgracing her twice?”

Arya’s jaw twitched.

“I’m only saying what everyone else is too polite to say,” Kirana said, stepping closer, lowering her voice. “She’s going to grow old alone, Arya. Maybe already has. And then what? You’ll be gone, I’ll be gone, and she’ll be some senile recluse talking to shadows.”

That did it.

Arya turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately. His face was calm, but his eyes—those tired, grieving eyes—had sharpened to steel. “You don’t get to talk about her like that,” he said. Kirana blinked. “Arya, I—”

“No."

His voice was firmer now, quieter than before but final. “You never cared to understand her. Not once. You’ve mocked her, resented her, and today you tried to humiliate her in front of strangers circling around her. Again.”

Kirana folded her arms, defensive. “I’m her stepmother. I’m allowed to worry about her future.”

“You’re not worried,” Arya said, cutting her off. “You’re ashamed. Because she doesn’t fit into your little pageant of ‘perfect’ lives. Because she’s bruised and she doesn’t hide it. Because she didn’t break the way you wanted her to.”

Kirana’s lips parted, but Arya held up a hand.

“For once, I want you to stop. Just—stop.” His voice lowered. “I’m worried about her too, Kirana. She’s not the same since Harvey. She nearly died. You act like she’s stubborn or selfish, but she’s grieving in ways you’ll never see.”

He paused, and for the briefest second, the pain cracked through his voice.

“She’s my daughter. I lost her once when she left for Seoul, and I won’t lose her again because of your bitterness.”

Kirana stared at him, stunned. He looked back toward Clarissa, who was now walking slowly toward the table of drinks, her figure half-shadowed by the dimming light. “Let her be,” he said, almost to himself. “Let her find her way back. On her own terms.”

Then he turned and walked away from Kirana, toward his daughter—not to speak not to lecture—but just to stand near her. To be present. For the first time in years, Clarissa might not have been alone.

The lights above twinkled like tiny stars. The music had shifted into something slower, more reflective. People were pairing off to dance, or quietly sipping wine in small clusters. Clarissa sat alone at the far edge of the hall, half in shadow, absently rolling the condensation on her water glass between her palms.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

Arya didn’t say anything at first. He pulled the empty chair beside her slightly away from the table, then lowered himself into it with the care of a man older than he admitted. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him. They sat like that for almost a full minute, the silence not quite comfortable, but not hostile either. Then Arya asked softly, “Are you cold?”

Clarissa blinked, glancing over. “What?”

“You’re shivering,” he said, still not looking directly at her. “I wasn’t sure if it was the AC or...”

She looked down at her bare arms. She hadn’t noticed.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

More silence.

Clarissa spoke first this time. “I didn’t expect you to come over.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

She took a breath. “I thought maybe you agreed with her.”

Arya glanced at her now, eyes soft but wary. “Kirana has her own way of seeing the world. I don’t always agree with it.”

“That’s a careful answer.”

“I’m being careful with you,” he said. “Because I know I haven’t always been.”

Clarissa blinked, surprised by the honesty. She looked at him then—really looked. His once-black hair was now streaked heavily with gray. His eyes, though sharp, carried something she couldn’t read: regret, maybe. Or fear. He went on. “I know I’ve let you down in a thousand quiet ways. I didn’t fight for you enough when you needed it. I let Kirana speak for both of us too many times.”

“You didn’t stop her today either,” she said, not accusingly, just stating it. “I did,” he said softly.

“After.” Clarissa turned her head sharply.

He nodded. “I told her to stop. Told her she doesn’t get to define what you are to me.”

Clarissa didn’t respond right away. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “You don’t have to defend me, Pa. I’m used to—”

“No,” Arya interrupted gently. “That’s exactly why I do.”

His voice was strained now, like he was pushing against years of built-up silence. “When you left for Seoul, I told myself you just needed space. But I think... part of me knew you were running. And I let you. Because it was easier than facing what you were going through.”

Clarissa’s eyes stung. She looked away again, toward the dance floor, where her brother spun his new bride slowly under the lights. “I didn’t want anyone to see it,” she murmured. “So I buried myself in work and study. It was easier to be a stranger in a foreign place than a failure in my own home.”

Arya exhaled through his nose. “You were never a failure.”

She smiled, faint and bitter. Sarcastic. “Not even after Harvey?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “Especially not after Harvey.”

The music in the distance swelled and faded. Arya leaned forward. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I just wanted you to know... I see you. I still see my daughter. Not a disgrace. Not a ghost. Just someone trying her best to survive.”

Clarissa closed her eyes. Let the words settle. Let them breathe.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

They sat there as the music played on, two silhouettes against the edge of celebration—quiet, finally, but no longer alone. The music softened into a final ballad, the kind that slowed everything around it — footsteps, voices, even time itself.

Clarissa pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the corners of her eyes heavier now than when the day began. The soft hum of the celebration pressed around her like a distant echo, and yet she felt further away than ever.

She turned to her father.

“I think I’m going to go, Pa.” she said quietly.

Arya looked at her, startled. “Already?”

She offered him a tired smile. “I’m not feeling great. The air. The noise. I thought I could push through it, but—”

She shook her head. “I just need rest.”

Arya hesitated. He wanted to ask her to stay, he wanted to say this was the first real moment they’d had in years— but he saw the wear on her face, the way her shoulders drooped beneath the shawl. She wasn’t running. Not this time. She was just tired.

And she had every right to be. “I understand,” he said finally. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

Clarissa shook her head. “No. Just... this was enough. Thank you for sitting with me.”

He reached out gently, resting a hand over hers on the table. It was rough, warm, unsure. “I meant what I said earlier. You don’t have to explain yourself. Not to me. Just... promise me you’ll call sometime.”

She nodded, blinking back a sting in her eyes. “I will.”

Arya gave her hand a small squeeze, then let go. She stood, gave him one last look —half-sad, half-something softer— then turned and began walking across the hall.

He watched her go, the dark fabric of her dress brushing over the marble floor, her silhouette folding slowly into the dim light beyond the reception hall. He didn’t call her name. For the first time, Arya didn’t try to stop her. And for the first time in her life, Clarissa didn’t feel like she had to explain her leaving.

Just this once, her exit was enough.

END.

[siltrace]

Small Signs

After the unexpected reunion at The Griya Madhava in Bali—where ocean winds tangled with quiet revelations and tuxedo jackets brushed sleeveless shoulders—Clarissa and Winston had found themselves no longer dancing around coincidence. They were working together now.

Almost every day for the past week since the party, they’d met—on campus, in Clarissa’s minimalist office, or tucked into a quiet corner of the university’s architecture archive. The joint proposal had been reshaped at Clarissa’s request, shifting from a long-term commitment to a focused, short-term pilot. Winston hadn’t minded. If anything, he admired how decisively she moved, even when she was cautious. Every adjustment to the plan felt considered, necessary—like Clarissa herself.

That afternoon, the soft hum of the ceiling fans blended with the muted clicks of Winston’s keyboard. They sat across from each other in one of the quiet meeting rooms she preferred, away from the admin wing’s usual traffic. The long wooden table between them was scattered with blueprints, books, scribbled notes, and coffee cups from two different vendors—hers, black with a dash of cinnamon; his, a double shot with cream.

Clarissa leaned forward, scrolling through a 3D rendering with faint tension in her posture. Her brow was furrowed in focus as she reviewed the schematic, one hand occasionally lifting to adjust the loose strands of hair that had slipped free from her low twist.

It had started to fall apart hours ago, no longer as composed as the woman herself—but just as deliberate. Winston glanced up briefly, catching the familiar motion. She brushed one lock behind her ear again. It was the fourth time that hour.

“You know,” he said gently, not looking up from his screen as his fingers paused mid-typing, “I think your hair’s losing patience faster than I am.”

Clarissa blinked, fingers frozen on the trackpad. She turned her eyes toward him—cool, unreadable—for a beat too long. Then, softly, a smile. Small. Almost private. Gone too quickly, but not unnoticed. “Occupational hazard,” she murmured, tucking another strand back with faint resignation. “It doesn’t like spreadsheets.”

Winston smirked and turned his attention back to the report. “Not many do.”

The silence returned, but it was gentler now—less clinical, more companionable. There was a subtle shift happening. Something unspoken, gradual. She didn’t talk about Bali. Neither did he. But something about those moonlit hours seemed to linger between them in the warmth of the shared room, in the ease that began to creep into their conversations.

Clarissa, usually guarded, no longer flinched at casual remarks. And Winston, ever attuned, didn’t press. He just noticed the quiet things. The slight exhale when she found the exact reference she’d been hunting for. The way her voice dipped when she explained a theory she cared about. The way her coffee went cold when she got too focused. And maybe—just maybe—she noticed him noticing.

They were still strangers in some ways. Yet, a different kind of knowing was beginning to settle. And that, Winston thought, was more than enough—for now.

As the sun dipped lower outside the tall windows, slanting amber light across the table, their quiet work continued. Clarissa’s focus was unwavering, her fingers brushing over sketches and structural notes with precision. She barely touched her coffee.

Winston leaned back, stretching slightly. “You haven’t taken a sip in the last hour. That cinnamon’s going to sink and settle if you’re not careful.”

Clarissa blinked, pulled from her thoughts. She glanced at the cup, then at him, her lips curving faintly. “I forgot.”

“You always forget.” “It’s just coffee, Mr. Langford.”

“It’s neglect,” he replied with a dry smile, “and I’m beginning to worry for the cinnamon.”

Her laughter came as a quiet exhale, barely audible, but it warmed the space between them like a small fire. Winston stood and walked toward the far shelf to grab a book. As he did, Clarissa leaned back in her chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose, the kind of motion that betrayed both fatigue and the quiet weight she carried.

Not from the project—but from something older. More enduring.

He returned to his seat with the book, then paused, watching her for a moment. Not with pity. Just observation. A quiet wonder.

“I don’t get how you do it,” he said softly. She looked up.

“Balance all of this. Campus responsibilities. The studio. This project. And still somehow…”

He stopped short of finishing the sentence. Clarissa tilted her head. “Still somehow what?”

Winston hesitated, then let a lopsided smile speak for him. “Still somehow make it look like your world never wavers.”

She didn’t respond right away. Her eyes met his—steady, searching. Then, with that familiar silence that had become her second language, she looked away and returned to the schematic. But not before her fingers brushed her bracelet—the silver one.

Winston saw the movement and understood its meaning without explanation. He didn’t ask more. But his gaze lingered a second longer before returning to the diagrams.

Minutes passed. Finally, she spoke. “I don’t balance it, Mr. Langford. I just… compartmentalize it.”

The way she said his name—measured, soft—felt like an invitation and a warning all at once. He nodded once. “Fair.”

And that was all.

But in that moment, with a fading sun washing gold over quiet coffee and blueprints, something else shifted—not dramatic, not rushed. Just enough. The kind of shift that doesn’t announce itself. The kind that builds trust not in grand gestures, but in the silence someone lets you stay in. They continued working. No longer strangers. Not quite something else. But undeniably no longer what they were.

Clarissa’s eyes remained on the schematic, pencil in hand, but her voice softened—half thought, half challenge. “You say that like you’re not doing the same thing,” she said. “A vice director of an international mining empire… one of the world’s leading in mining and winery, if I’m not mistaken.”

Winston looked up, a slow smile touching the corner of his mouth. “You googled me.”

Clarissa didn’t flinch, though the smallest twitch of a smirk passed her lips. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous, Mr. Langford.”

"Neither are you, CEO of Griya Madhava and Clarity Design Studio,” he replied smoothly, tilting his head. She tapped the edge of the paper with her pencil. “Touché.”

Their eyes met—nothing playful, nothing charged. Just a brief, honest moment.

“But yes,” he said after a pause, voice quieter, “I do the same. Smile at the board, fly back for press events, sit in on policy calls between lectures. Pretend like I have more hours in a day than I do.”

“Pretend like it doesn’t weigh on you,” she added. Winston nodded.

They sat in that stillness again, the soft ticking of the wall clock echoing between them. Clarissa finally leaned back in her chair, one hand resting lightly on her cup. “We must be very good at pretending.”

Winston looked at her for a moment longer—admiring not just her calm, or the lines of exhaustion she didn’t try to hide, but the quiet strength behind it all. “We are,” he said. “But I think we both know when someone’s not pretending.”

Clarissa didn’t reply to that. But her fingers curved slightly around the coffee cup, and her expression, for a fleeting second, betrayed a gentleness she rarely let slip. Then she straightened, eyes back on the blueprint. “Back to it,” she said lightly.

Winston glanced back at his screen, fingers moving again, but the air between them had changed—something invisible warming at the edges.

Half an hour later, as the quiet deepened, he shifted in his chair, fishing through his leather satchel for a pen. His hand stilled when he couldn’t find the one he liked. Without a word, Clarissa slid hers across the table—navy blue, sleek, familiar. Winston looked up.

“That’s your favorite.”

“I know,” she said simply, not looking up from her screen. “But your handwriting’s too good for a plastic ballpoint.”

He picked it up carefully, almost reverently.

“You noticed my handwriting?”

Still without meeting his gaze, she turned a page. “It’s hard not to. You write like someone who thinks carefully.”

He watched her for a second longer. Then turned back to his notes, omething faint but solid growing in his chest. The room was still, the outside world muffled by the tall windows and the slow hum of the late afternoon. Time moved differently in that shared space—measured not in hours or deadlines, but in sidelong glances, quiet understanding, and gestures that said more than small talk ever could. Winston wrote something in his notebook with her pen, slower than usual, the motion thoughtful. He glanced up again, his voice quiet.

“Do you always give away your favorite things so easily?”

Clarissa didn’t smile, but something flickered in her eyes—amusement, maybe. Or weariness.

“No,” she replied. “Only when it makes sense.”

The reply lingered in the air like perfume, subtle and complex. Winston could’ve asked what that meant. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “I’ll take good care of it.”

Clarissa finally looked at him then, her expression unreadable—but not closed off. “I know you will.”

They returned to their work, the silence once again comfortable. But underneath the rustle of paper and the soft clack of keys, something had undeniably shifted. A thread of quiet intimacy had begun to weave its way between them—unspoken, but present. Not yet acknowledged, but unmistakably there. And neither of them moved to undo it.

Clarissa glanced at her phone again—the screen lit up with a call from her design studio. She hesitated for a moment, a subtle tension flickering in her eyes before she pressed the speaker button.

“I’m sorry, Winston. I have to take this. It’s probably urgent,” she said softly, rising from her chair. She smoothed the crease in her skirt with a practiced motion, then stepped out quietly, closing the door behind her with a gentle click.

Winston watched her leave, a strange stillness settling in the room. The faint hum of the ceiling fans mixed with the distant murmur of her voice from the hallway. Left alone, he exhaled slowly and rose from his chair, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. He wandered toward the lobby where the food he had ordered earlier waited, neatly packed and still warm. Korean food—an unexpected but deliberate choice—reflecting a small, shared connection between them. He smiled softly to himself at the thought: 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘶𝘺𝘶𝘬, crispy and sweet; 𝘬𝘪𝘮𝘤𝘩𝘪 𝘫𝘫𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘦, fiery and comforting; 𝘫𝘫𝘢𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘺𝘦𝘰𝘯, rich and familiar; and 𝘬𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘱, rolled with precision.

Carefully, he carried the containers back to the table, setting them down with a quiet reverence as if laying out pieces of a puzzle. He then gathered the scattered blueprints and papers, neatly stacking them to one side to create space without disturbing the fragile flow of their work.

Winston poured two cups of tea from a small, delicate pot resting on a nearby shelf, the aroma rising gently and mingling with the spicy scents from the food. The warmth of the tea was a quiet comfort amid the hum of the empty room. As he settled back into his chair, his eyes drifted toward the closed door through which Clarissa had just disappeared. A swirl of thoughts tugged at him.

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘳— 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘺. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦— 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.

He took a slow breath, feeling the familiar ache of curiosity and oncern intertwine. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭?𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦?

The silence wrapped around him—not empty, but expectant, as if the room itself was waiting for her return. For them to pick up where they left off, two strangers inching closer through the shared rhythm of work, food, and stolen moments. He sipped his tea, eyes lingering on the door, holding onto the quiet hope that she’d come back soon.

Clarissa returned to the room, the faint click of the door announcing her presence before she stepped inside. Her eyes immediately landed on the neatly arranged spread of Korean food laid out on the table. A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips—a rare, unguarded moment. “This looks amazing,” she said softly, stepping closer.

The rich aroma of the dishes seemed to warm the room. Winston met her gaze and shrugged with a quiet confidence. “Maybe this can be our bridge. I’m Korean by birth, so food like this feels like a little piece of home. And you… you’ve lived in Seoul for so long. It’s something we share, at least.”

Clarissa’s smile deepened, and she nodded in appreciation. “I don’t know that you’re Korean by birth. Thank you, Mr. Langford. It’s thoughtful.”

Winston chuckled softly, the lightness in his voice a contrast to the seriousness that often accompanied their conversations. “Call me Winston, please. You know, it doesn’t always have to be formal when it’s just us.”

She glanced down briefly, then back at him, the familiar polite restraint softened by the moment. “Alright… Winston.”

He reached out and gestured toward the table. “So, what do you want? I’ll make sure you get the best plate.”

Clarissa considered for a heartbeat, then said, “Maybe a bit of everything. It’s been a long day.”

Winston nodded and carefully began plating the food, his movements calm and attentive as he prepared a meal that felt less like fuel and more like a quiet gesture of care—one that spoke volumes between the lines of their work and words. Clarissa watched Winston with quiet curiosity, noticing the way his hands moved deliberately but gently as he arranged the food. There was something unspoken in his attentiveness—an ease and care that didn’t feel forced, but genuine. He wasn’t just putting food on a plate; he was trying to make her feel comfortable, seen.

She caught his eye briefly, a flicker of surprise and something softer lingering in her gaze. Winston looked up, catching the moment, and gave a small, almost shy smile.

“I’m trying my best here,” he said lightly, but there was an earnestness beneath his words. Clarissa nodded, touched by the simple kindness. Despite all the professional walls she kept up, in this quiet moment, she allowed herself to appreciate it—a rare comfort in the midst of their hectic lives. She gave a small, genuine smile.

“Thank you, Winston. This means more than you probably realize.”

He nodded, his eyes warm but calm. “Sometimes, it’s the little things that make the biggest difference.” They settled into the quiet rhythm of sharing the meal. The clink of chopsticks against plates, the soft hum of conversation—mostly between themselves, though often interrupted by comfortable silences. For a while, the weight of the project, the expectations, even the shadows of their pasts seemed to soften, held at bay by the simple act of breaking bread together.

As they ate, Winston watched Clarissa carefully, noticing how she relaxed just a fraction more with each bite. The tension around her shoulders seemed to ease, and her eyes, usually so guarded, flickered with quiet appreciation.

“I don’t often get to just sit down and enjoy a meal like this,” she admitted softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear again. Winston smiled gently. “Maybe we should make this a regular thing—project work with food that reminds us of home.”

Clarissa glanced at him, a flicker of warmth in her gaze. “Home is a complicated word for me.”

He nodded, understanding more than words could say. “Same here.”

The night stretched on, filled with light conversation and shared glances. Outside, the city’s pulse slowed under the dark sky, but in this small, cluttered room, the quiet connection between them grew stronger — fragile, subtle, and promising. Winston leaned back slightly, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You know, I’m honestly happy—and a little relieved—to see you actually eating.”

Clarissa blinked, her brows knitting together in mild confusion. “Relieved?”

He chuckled quietly. “Yeah. You mentioned you skip meals a lot during the day. I was worried you weren’t taking care of yourself.”

Her gaze softened, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything—just took in the quiet sincerity behind his words. “I guess... I didn’t realize it showed,” she finally murmured.

Winston shook his head gently. “Sometimes the smallest things speak the loudest.”

He raised his chopsticks in a small toast. “To more meals, and fewer skipped lunches.”

Clarissa returned the gesture with a faint smile, a little more at ease than before. The room settled into a tranquil calm, the only sounds those of soft bites and the occasional scrape of chopsticks against plates.

Outside, the city lights flickered like distant stars, casting gentle shadows across the minimalist space where they sat together. Clarissa felt the weight of the day beginning to lift—a quiet relief she hadn’t allowed herself in months. Winston’s gaze was steady and patient, watching her with a tenderness that didn’t demand anything but simply offered presence.

He reached over to clear a stray napkin, his movements deliberate yet gentle. Her eyes met his, and in that brief moment, something unspoken passed between them—an acknowledgment of the quiet loneliness they both carried, masked by strength and duty.

Clarissa exhaled slowly, a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. For the first time, she felt a fragile sense of ease settle within her. “Thank you.” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Winston’s smile was soft, reassuring.

“We’re in this together, Clarissa. Whatever comes next.”

The night deepened outside, wrapping the city in a velvet hush. Inside, the small room held a warmth that wasn’t just from the meal but from the subtle shift in their connection—a delicate thread weaving them closer, quietly promising that neither of them needed to face their worlds alone.

And as they sat side by side, sharing more than just food, a new chapter quietly began—one filled with tentative hope, growing trust, and the possibility of something neither had dared to name until now.

END.

[siltrace]

An Unplanned Meeting

It was another morning and Winston arrived on campus earlier than usual. A quiet anticipation stirred in his chest, though he did his best to mask it behind the habitual sip of his takeaway coffee. The campus halls were alive with the usual movement—students shuffling between lectures, lecturers chatting by department offices—but there was something missing. Or rather, someone.

Clarissa wasn’t there. He waited near her department’s corridor for a while, pretending to scroll through his phone. When enough time passed, he finally walked over to the Design office.

“Excuse me,” he said to the departmental secretary, a middle-aged woman with glasses too large for her face and a mild but firm tone. “Is Clarissa Florentine in today?”

The woman barely looked up. “She’s not in. She took leave today.”

“Is she… alright?” Winston asked carefully, trying not to sound too interested. “She didn’t mention anything urgent, just that she had something personal to take care of."

The secretary returned to typing, her tone dismissing further inquiry. “She’ll likely be back tomorrow or the day after. It’s a usual thing for her, as she’s often also busy with her other works.”

Winston nodded slowly, a hollow disappointment forming in his chest. No message. No reply to his email. No word about the project proposal.

By early afternoon, the day had grown heavier with Jakarta’s humidity and his own spinning thoughts. He was too restless to return to his flat. That’s when the message from Erick Tjandrawinata pinged on his phone.

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘉𝘢𝘭𝘪 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺. 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.”

Winston stared at it for a moment. The elite soirée had slipped his mind entirely. Hosted by Erick—an old colleague from his Oxford days who had returned to Indonesia to grow his family’s pharmaceutical empire—the party was promised to be nothing short of opulent. It was the kind of gathering Winston usually avoided. But today, escape sounded like a form of therapy.

Two hours later, he was boarding a charter flight to Bali. The sun was sinking when he arrived at the private villa compound nestled against the cliffs of Jimbaran.

The crashing waves below were a constant whisper behind the jazz quartet playing near the infinity pool. Soft golden light danced across glass and silk, laughter floated through the air like perfume, and glasses of imported champagne clinked softly beneath chandeliers. Winston stepped into the atmosphere of polished ambition and practiced charm, instantly greeted by familiar faces from Jakarta’s upper echelon.

“Langford!” Erick boomed, arms wide, already a few drinks in. “Finally! You’ve been hiding, mate. Come, come—let me show you who’s here tonight.”

But even in the midst of luxury, all Winston could think about was someone who preferred silence over spectacle. Someone who wasn’t here. Clarissa. And he couldn’t stop himself from wondering—𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩?

The villa was a portrait of curated elegance: glistening stone floors, floating candlelight, and a panoramic ocean view that could quiet even the most boisterous minds. But Winston’s thoughts remained noisy.

He followed Erick through clusters of laughing heirs and heiresses, diplomats’ children turned CEOs, and government advisors dressed in linen and ambition. The kind of people Clarissa had deliberately stepped away from—people Winston had never felt entirely part of, despite the Langford name stitched into his legacy. “You need to stop looking like someone stole your thesis paper,” Erick joked, handing him a glass of whiskey. “You’re in Bali. Smile, brother. There are three ministers here, a dozen heirs, and even that pop singer you had a crush on in university.”

Winston gave a tired smile. “I’m not here for any of that.”

Erick raised an eyebrow. “Then you’re running.”

Winston didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes wandered again—to the terrace, where couples swayed to the music, and beyond that, to the sea. But just as he turned to excuse himself, something—or rather, someone—caught his eye. A woman had just entered through the side hall.

Dressed in an ivory silk blouse and tailored black pants, she moved with quiet confidence, unlike the showy guests around her. Her hair was tied up in a simple knot, a silver bangle glinting at her wrist. Winston’s breath caught.

Clarissa.

She hadn’t seen him. Her expression was unreadable, poised, even a little distant. She was talking to a middle-aged man in a grey batik shirt—one of the event’s corporate donors, if Winston remembered correctly. She gave him a slight bow of respect, said something with that calm, deliberate tone Winston now knew so well, and moved along.

“Is that...?” Erick followed his gaze and whistled.

“Clarissa Florentine. A Madhava. Didn’t know she’d show up. She’s usually ghosted these things.”

“You know her?”

“Everyone knows her,” Erick said. “Rector. Design prodigy. And one of Madhava’s heiress, though she never uses the title. She’s like this myth in our circles—shows up only when it matters, says very little, makes everyone wonder what she’s really thinking.”

Winston didn’t reply. His glass was suddenly heavy in his hand. "Want me to introduce you?” Erick asked with a sly grin. “No,” Winston said quickly. Then, more calmly, “We’ve met.”

Erick tilted his head, intrigued. “You’ve met Clarissa Madhava?” Winston took a measured sip of his drink, his gaze still on her slender frame moving through the crowd. “We’re working on a proposal together. Or were supposed to. I teach at her campus, part time.”

Erick gave a low whistle. “Now that’s a plot twist. How did you get her to agree to that?”

“I didn’t,” Winston muttered. “At least not yet.”

Erick chuckled and bumped his glass lightly against Winston’s. “No wonder you flew out here last minute. You’re tracking a ghost.”

Winston finally turned to face him, eyes narrowing. “It’s not like that.”

Erick smirked knowingly. “You’re not usually the type to follow a woman to a black-tie event across the sea unless something’s gotten under your skin.”

Winston didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Erick leaned against the balcony railing beside him, his voice lower now. “You do realize who she is, right? Madhava blood, first-class education, Indonesia's top of every list that matters—and heartbreak that turned her into stone for the last decades— especially since last April. She doesn’t let people in.”

“I’m not trying to get in,” Winston said quietly. “But you’re standing here watching her like she’s a compass and you’re finally north.”

That made Winston pause. He hated how well Erick could read him.

Clarissa had disappeared momentarily into the garden, speaking now to an elderly woman who greeted her like family. She nodded, her smile faint but polite. Winston could see how well she wore detachment like a second skin—composed, untouchable. And yet, he also remembered the version of her who laughed softly over a choco pie, who grew flustered with chocolate on her lip, who lingered in silence like it was her first language.

“I’m not chasing her,” Winston said after a moment.

“No,” Erick said evenly, “but you’re drawn to her. And that’s enough to complicate everything.”

Winston looked away from the terrace, clenching the glass in his hand just slightly. “I didn’t come here to complicate anything,” he muttered. “I just... wanted to know why she disappeared.”

Erick studied him, then straightened. “Well, you’re in luck. The room’s full of questions, and only she gets to hand out answers.”

Winston’s jaw flexed. He set his drink down on the nearest table and said, “Then maybe it’s time I asked her myself.”

Erick didn’t stop him. He just smiled, shook his head, and murmured, “Godspeed, Mr Lecturer.”

And with that, Winston began to make his way through the glittering crowd, heart thudding louder with each step toward the one woman who never left his thoughts—even when she wasn’t there.

Winston weaved his way through the elegantly dressed crowd, murmuring polite greetings, brushing off handshakes with quick nods. The buzz of the room swelled around him—soft laughter, clinking glasses, jazz threading in from a live band on the lower deck—but none of it anchored him. His eyes stayed fixed on the spot where Clarissa had last stood. But she was gone.

“Dr. Langford, I didn’t expect to see you here,” came a voice from his left. Winston turned, offering a quick smile to a senior consultant he vaguely remembered meeting at a bioethics panel in Jakarta. “Neither did I. Just... passing through.”

Before he could excuse himself, another guest intercepted him—someone from a mining affiliate wanting to talk about contracts and academic placements. Winston nodded through it, eyes still scanning. By the time he’d wriggled out of small talk, Clarissa had vanished. He moved to the edges of the garden, then back to the inner hall. No silver bracelet in sight. No dark hair pinned in that quiet, elegant twist. No trace of the navy silk dress that had glimmered softly under the golden party lights.

Gone.

Winston exhaled, slow and tight. He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “Perfect.”

She had been right there. And he had lost her—again. He returned to the terrace, where Erick was still nursing a drink and chatting with an investment advisor. Erick caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Winston gave the smallest shake of his head. Erick waited until the advisor drifted away before speaking.

“Like I said—ghost.”

Winston didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the railing, gaze searching the horizon beyond the party lights. Bali shimmered in the distance, alive with noise and neon. But Clarissa was nowhere in it.

“I just needed to talk to her,” he said under his breath. “One conversation.”

“Then you’d better learn how to keep up,” Erick replied. “She’s not the kind of woman who stays still for long.”

Winston gave a dry laugh. “You don’t say.”

He stood there a while longer, silent and unresolved, listening to the music and the sound of doors closing quietly behind him—real or imagined, he couldn’t tell. But the night felt unfinished now. Again. And somehow, she lingered.

Erick sipped his drink slowly, watching Winston’s line of sight scan the courtyard below like he was still hoping she'd materialize. Then, with a chuckle, he nudged Winston lightly with his elbow. “Relax, Langford. She’s still around.”

Winston turned to him, brow furrowed. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Erick said, lifting his glass toward the open-air view of the oceanfront property. “This place—The Griya Madhava—is hers.”

Winston blinked. “You mean… she booked it for the event?”

Erick scoffed lightly. “No. I mean she owns it. Clarissa Madhava is the CEO. This whole resort, the villas—it’s part of her portfolio. She inherited the Griya chain. It’s one of the crown jewels of her family’s holdings.”

Winston leaned back slightly, struck silent. Owned it. He turned to look out at the sprawling elegance of the property—the way it merged cultural beauty and cutting-edge design with such effortless harmony. Now it made sense.

The intricate carved panels, the calming palette, the subtle blend of Balinese tradition and contemporary lines—it had her fingerprints all over it. All this time, he’d known she was someone of significance, but not like this. Not someone whose name held weight in blue-chip circles. Not someone born into legacy, wealth, and the kind of generational responsibility most people spent their lives trying to grasp.

Erick raised an eyebrow at Winston’s silence. “Didn’t know that, huh?”

Winston shook his head slowly. “No. She never said anything.”

“She wouldn’t. Clarissa’s not the type to flash a title. If anything, she hides it better than most.” Erick gave him a look, half amused, half respectful. “But this place… it’s her world. Every curve of it. If she’s gone quiet, she’s likely behind the scenes. Planning something. Or maybe she saw you and slipped away.”

Winston exhaled, frustrated but more curious than ever. “Why would she slip away?”

Erick gave him a look. “You tell me.”

Winston looked down at his glass, fingers tapping slowly against its rim. There were no answers in it, just more questions. Clarissa wasn’t just the lecturer behind a quiet office door. She wasn’t even just the university’s youngest rector. She was Clarissa Madhava. Architect of her own empire. And somehow still unreadable.

“She’s impossible to figure out,” Winston murmured. Erick grinned. “And that’s exactly why you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Winston didn’t argue.

He just stood there, letting the sea breeze wash over him, the lights of Griya Madhava flickering like stars fallen to earth. She was here—somewhere in the folds of her world. And now, he wasn’t sure if he was chasing her or if he’d already stepped into her gravity without knowing it.

The soft clinking of glasses and the ambient notes of a gamelan-fusion ensemble filled the evening air. Winston lingered near the balcony with Erick for a while, scanning the crowd whenever a ripple of movement or laughter hinted at her silhouette. Time passed—an hour, maybe more—and still, no sign of her. He was beginning to think she truly had slipped away when a faint hush stirred the nearby group of guests. Winston glanced over and felt his breath pause.

Clarissa had entered the courtyard.

She didn’t demand attention. She never did. But there was a quiet force to her presence—an elegance that parted crowds without sound— and Winston caught it. A flicker in her eyes as she scanned the party—hesitant, restrained. Like she hadn’t expected to be seen here. Like part of her wished she wasn’t. She hadn’t seen him yet. Or maybe she had, and chose not to acknowledge it. Either possibility sank like a stone in Winston’s chest.

“I told you she’d still be around,” Erick muttered beside him, voice low and dry. “You want me to call her over?”

Winston shook his head slightly, eyes still fixed. “No. I’ll go.”

He moved through the crowd, dodging greetings and shoulder-pats, never losing sight of her. But just as he stepped closer—five meters, maybe less—a group of older gentlemen broke into laughter between them, blocking his path. In the moment it took for them to pass, she was gone again.

He turned, scanning. Nothing. Gone like a ripple through water.

He felt the frustration flare, but before he could retreat, Erick reappeared beside him, a cocktail in hand. “She’ll turn up again,” he said casually, sipping. “She always does. Just don’t chase her too fast.”

Winston gave a wry smile. “Why not?”

“Because she’s used to being chased. But not used to someone staying.”

Winston didn’t reply. He just turned back toward the crowd—calmer now, steadier. She was here. In her own world. And this time, he wouldn’t go back to Jakarta without seeing her again. Even if she was hiding in plain sight.

The villa’s inner courtyard had grown quieter, the music easing into a softer rhythm as guests migrated toward the open lounge, mingling in smaller groups under the warm glow of antique lanterns. Winston had just begun to drift toward the garden, considering whether to wait or search again, when Erick tapped his shoulder.

“There you are,” he said. “Come with me.”

Winston followed without question, weaving past clusters of executives, politicians, and socialites, until they reached a low set of stone steps leading up to a quieter, elevated patio.

And there—at the edge—stood Clarissa.

She was speaking with a pair of older guests, but her posture was reserved. Elegant, as always. Measured, like someone aware of every gaze on her.

Erick stepped forward first. “Clarissa.”

She turned—and her expression shifted the moment she saw Winston behind him. “Erick,” she greeted, her voice even but her eyes darting, as if deciding what emotion was safe to show. “I wanted to introduce someone,” Erick said with a smile. “Winston Langford. Langford Holdings. I believe you two might already be acquainted—he's also Vice Director of the board now, as of earlier this year.”

Clarissa’s eyes flicked to Winston, lingering now. “Vice Director?” she echoed, her tone neutral. Winston offered a nod, a quiet smile. “Among other things.”

There was a pause—something unspoken settling between them. Erick, perceptive as ever, smiled and took a casual step back. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he said, already turning toward the lounge. Winston and Clarissa stood in silence for a moment.

“I didn’t know,” she said finally, looking at him. “You never mentioned…”

“Neither did you,” Winston replied gently. “About being the CEO of this place.”

Clarissa exhaled quietly, glancing out toward the garden below. “I suppose we’re both guilty of omission.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I still meant everything I said to you. Back then.”

She looked at him again. No longer just the quiet lecturer. No longer just Clarissa from the hallway. This was Clarissa Madhava in her domain. And Winston—no longer the man with snacks and charm in a dim office—but someone who now stood shoulder-to-shoulder in her world. Yet somehow, something fragile still passed between them. Familiar. Intimate.

“Why are you really here, Mr. Langford? Now that I know you're Langford's Langford.” she asked.

He met her gaze. “Because you disappeared,” he said simply. “And I didn’t want to let you disappear twice.” Her breath caught for a second, barely, and she looked away—just enough to protect whatever tremble might’ve been behind her composure.

“Have you been intoxicated by the drinks?” Clarissa asked, one brow slightly raised, a teasing edge curling at the end of her voice. “Your sentence sounds… romantic.”

Winston chuckled, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Not a sip. Unless mineral water counts.”

Clarissa’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though her eyes searched his face for the truth beneath the ease. He looked different here—still familiar, but sharper in a tailored suit, the quiet lecturer now subtly shedding that skin. Yet his tone, that sincerity wrapped in wit, was still his.

“Then maybe you’re just tired,” she added, glancing away as if to steady the moment. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “Or maybe it’s just honest.”

Clarissa didn’t answer at first. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, slow and absent. “This is… unexpected.”

“Me showing up here?”

She gave a small nod. “You, being here. Being ‘that’ Langford’s Langford, and saying things like that.”

Winston stepped a little closer—not imposing, just enough to close a polite distance. “I didn’t plan to see you here. I didn’t even know this place belonged to your family until Erick told me. But once I knew… I hoped you’d still be around.”

Clarissa met his gaze then. “I’m not sure if that’s sweet… or reckless.”

He smiled. “Possibly both.”

A silence fell between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy with possibilities. The air was thick with the sea breeze, floral notes from the garden mingling with the scent of Clarissa’s soft perfume. Her expression faltered for a second, her guard slipping just enough to show the woman behind the name, behind the company, behind the loss.

“You didn’t answer my email,” he added gently. Clarissa sighed softly, a flicker of exhaustion crossing her face. “I’ve been considering it… but only for the short term. There’s a lot on my plate right now—more than usual, actually. I wanted to reply earlier, but I got caught up with work outside the campus today. It was one of those days that just swallowed the hours. Sorry, didn’t mean to ghost you.”

Winston’s expression softened with understanding. “I get it. No pressure. Just… keep me in the loop, alright?”

“Of course,” she said, her tone steady but sincere. “I’ll let you know by tomorrow morning.”

The music from the party hummed around them, but for a moment, it was just the two of them — a delicate balance between words spoken and those left unsaid. Before Winston could say more, a small group of men approached Clarissa from across the room, their footsteps measured but confident. Leading them was a tall man in a tailored dark suit, his smile polished and practiced as he stopped just a few steps away from her.

“Clarissa, always a pleasure to see you,” he said smoothly, offering a hand.

Clarissa responded with a polite smile and a brief handshake, her demeanor shifting subtly—cooler, more formal, a clear signal that this was business. Winston caught the exchange of quick, calculated glances between them, the kind that spoke of years of unspoken understanding and mutual expectation.

The other men hovered nearby, their eyes flicking between Clarissa and Winston, sizing him up. Winston felt the weight of their silent appraisal, but he held his ground, his gaze steady on Clarissa. She looked back at him briefly, a flicker of apology in her eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Langford. I need to handle this.”

He nodded, a quiet understanding passing between them. “Of course. I’ll be around.”

Clarissa stepped into the circle of men, her voice calm but firm as she navigated the conversation. Even amid the crowd and the subtle power plays, she moved with that same composed grace Winston had come to admire—unflinching, poised, and utterly in control. Winston stayed where he was, watching her with a mix of fascination and something softer—an unspoken connection waiting patiently for the right moment to resume.

The tension between them folded into the background noise of the party, but the promise lingered: their story was far from over.

Winston remained rooted in place, his eyes never leaving Clarissa as she navigated the circle of men. The atmosphere around her shifted subtly—conversations hushed, smiles sharpened, and subtle nods passed between those gathered. It was clear she was used to commanding attention, used to the silent negotiations that accompanied her position. He couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly she balanced the weight of expectation with that poised exterior. Even here, among the elite, Clarissa was unshaken—a queen in her own right.

Minutes stretched, the conversation finally breaking as Clarissa gave a polite, decisive nod. She excused herself with a graceful turn and made her way back toward Winston.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said quietly, lowering her voice now that they were away from prying ears. “Some things are unavoidable.”

Winston smiled, stepping a little closer. “You handle it all like it’s second nature.”

She shrugged lightly. “It’s part of the job.”

They stood in a brief, comfortable silence, the hum of the party swirling around them but fading into the background. “So,” Winston began, his tone softer now, “about the project—you said you’re considering a short-term commitment?”

Clarissa nodded, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of her glass. “Yes. My schedule is packed with other responsibilities, especially with the resort. I want to give the project the attention it deserves, but right now, I can only commit for the near future.”

Winston considered this, then gave a slight nod. “That makes sense. Quality over quantity.”

She met his eyes, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them. “I’ll give you a definite answer tomorrow morning. Promise.”

Before Winston could reply, the music shifted and the crowd began to pulse with renewed energy. Clarissa glanced around, her expression flickering with exhaustion and resolve. “Let’s get some fresh air,” she suggested, and without waiting for a response, led the way toward the balcony overlooking the moonlit resort grounds.

The night was cooler out there, the breeze carrying the faint scent of frangipani and ocean salt. For a moment, away from the polished crowd, Clarissa’s guard softened.

Winston stood beside her, the distance between them shrinking, the promise of something unspoken hanging thick in the warm night air. Winston slipped off his tuxedo jacket and held it out to her with a quiet smile.

“You’re wearing sleeveless. It’s getting colder, with the sea breeze.”

Clarissa hesitated for a moment, then accepted the jacket, letting it drape over her shoulders. The fabric was cool against her skin, but his gesture warmed the space between them. He adjusted the jacket gently, smoothing the collar as his fingers brushed her arms. His touch was careful, respectful—soft, like a quiet promise rather than a bold declaration.

“You’re always so composed,” Winston said lowly, his voice calm but carrying a gentle warmth. “It’s nice to see you let your guard down, even just a little.”

Clarissa glanced up, caught by the softness in his eyes. For a heartbeat, the world outside the balcony—the party, the expectations—faded away. “Thank you, Mr. Langford,” she said, voice steady but touched with something more sincere than before.

Winston smiled again, subtle and steady. “Just Winston, for now.”

They stood side by side, the night air weaving around them, the unspoken pull between two worlds beginning to feel a little less distant. Clarissa slipped her hands from the sleeves of Winston’s tuxedo with deliberate gentleness, folding the jacket neatly before offering it back to him. Her fingers brushed against his just briefly—an accidental softness that made time slow, if only for him.

"Thank you,” she said, eyes not quite meeting his. “But I should get going.”

Winston accepted the tux, his gaze steady. “Leaving already?”

She nodded, her smile delicate but distant. “Long day. And I have another early one tomorrow.”

He didn’t press, only stepped back to let her pass. “Get some rest, Clarissa.”

She paused, just for a beat. “You should enjoy the party, Mr. Langford. It’s a beautiful night.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her figure slipping through the open glass doors back into the warm lights of the party. He followed slowly behind, only far enough to stop at the balcony once more, alone now. From the upper level, he could see the cobbled path winding through the resort grounds below, lit by soft amber garden lights. Clarissa’s silhouette moved calmly beneath the moonlight—elegant, composed, entirely solitary.

Her blouse shimmered faintly under the subtle lighting, like she didn’t quite belong to the world around her. He watched in silence as she disappeared through the stone archway that led to her private villa, the curve of her retreating figure quiet as a sigh.

The laughter and music behind him carried on, untouched by the quiet ache she left in her wake. And Winston—jacket now resting over his arm—stood in the night air with his thoughts. Not quite sure when it had happened, but knowing now: He wasn’t just intrigued anymore.

𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥.

Erick swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice clinking quietly between their silences. “You know you’re not the only one who’s noticed her, right?”

Winston didn’t look at him. “I figured.”

“She’s not just a name, Win. Clarissa Madhava—she’s that woman. The inheritor of the Madhava estate. The villa, the resorts, even half of that campus you teach at—it’s all tied to her. She didn’t just rise into the role. She was born into it. And now… with Harvey gone…”

Erick let the thought trail off, but the weight of it lingered. Winston’s jaw tensed. “So they’re circling.”

Erick nodded slowly. “Like wolves in dinner jackets. Businessmen, investors, a diplomat’s son or two. Not to mention a few legacy heirs from the old money families. Every one of them sees the same opportunity—Clarissa alone. Powerful, grieving, and vulnerable enough to marry into.”

Winston let out a quiet breath. “And yet she walked out alone.”

“She always does. That’s what keeps them guessing.”

There was a pause before Erick spoke again, his tone dipping into something more serious. “Just be aware, Langford. Your parents… they’d be no different. Maybe not circling her, but certainly steering you. You think they’ll stay silent if they find out you’re spending your time chasing a woman who’s not already in their pre-approved circle?”

Winston gave a hollow laugh. “They’ve already started. Told me to leave the lectures. Focus on Langford Mining. Marry someone with pedigree, someone who can ‘carry the legacy’.”

He added air quotes with a scoff. “As if I ever had a say.”

Erick glanced at him sideways. “They’re not subtle, are they?”

“No,” Winston muttered. “They never were.”

Erick finished his drink and placed the glass on the balcony rail with a quiet clink. “Well, whatever you decide… just don’t get pulled in too deep unless you’re ready to drown. Because Clarissa? She’s not someone you chase halfway. She’ll see through that before you even try.”

Winston looked down at the path again, where the moonlight still shimmered across the stones she had walked. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” he admitted. “But I don’t think I want halfway.”

Erick gave a short, quiet laugh, then patted his shoulder. “Then I suggest you learn how to swim.”

Winston stayed quiet for a moment, watching the moonlight ripple over the sea, the echoes of the evening crowd fading behind them. Erick’s words lingered in his mind.

𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her,” Winston said finally, almost to himself. Erick smirked faintly. “No one has. That’s why everyone fumbles around her. They expect a woman grieving to either break or be saved. Clarissa doesn’t need either.”

“She’s still grieving,” Winston said softly. “She is,” Erick agreed. “But she grieves privately. That’s the danger. She won’t tell you where it hurts, and she won’t let you fix it. She’ll just keep moving. Until one day, someone walks beside her without needing to rescue or tame her.”

Winston’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. “Do you think she ever lets anyone in?”

Erick shrugged. “Not lately. But maybe that’s the point—she’s not waiting for someone to fix her. She’s waiting to see who actually listens.”

Winston let out a quiet exhale, the weight of it caught in his chest. It wasn’t love—not yet. But it wasn’t just curiosity either. It was… concern. Admiration. A pull he couldn’t explain. Something between all that. He looked back toward the villa she had disappeared into, its windows dark now, the pathway silent.

“I’m not sure what she thinks of me,” Winston admitted. “Maybe nothing. Maybe something is passing.”

Erick gave a half-smile. “Then start there. With not trying to define it too early. Just… show up. Not with answers. Not with expectations. Just the kind of presence she might eventually trust.”

Winston turned to him with a dry smile. “Since when did you get so philosophical?”

Erick clinked his glass gently against the railing. “Since I watched you look at her the way your father used to look at legacy charts.”

They both chuckled, low and brief. Then silence again. But this time, it felt different—more settled, more certain. Winston straightened, rolling back his shoulders. “I’ll stay a bit longer.”

“Good,” Erick said. “Just don’t forget—there’s a storm under that calm of hers. And you? You’ve got some lightning of your own.”

Winston smirked. “I think I’ve always liked storms.”

Erick gave a knowing glance, then turned and headed back inside, leaving Winston alone with the sea breeze, the moonlight, and the lingering echo of Clarissa’s absence. He stood there for a while, not chasing the thought of her—but letting it unfold, slow and real.

Whatever came next, it would start with patience. And presence.

END.

[siltrace]

Echoes from Home

After the long day at the university—one that lingered with the quiet aftertaste of shared chocolate and unspoken questions—Winston Langford finally stepped into the apartment he called home. The soft click of the door behind him was usually a cue for solitude

The soft click of the door behind him was usually a cue for solitude. He looked forward to his usual routine: a quick meal, a late read, maybe thoughts of Clarissa tucked somewhere in between.

But tonight, something was different.

A pair of boots stood neatly by the entrance, unfamiliar in shape and size. The scent of warm curry floated faintly from the kitchen—aromatic and nostalgic, sharp enough to stop him mid-step. “Hello?” he called cautiously, setting down his bag.

A familiar voice replied before he could take another step.

“Winston, finally! You still leave your spare key under the plant pot, huh?”

He blinked. “Mum?”

From around the kitchen corner emerged his mother—sharp-eyed, silver-haired, and already halfway through preparing dinner as if she owned the apartment. Behind her came his younger sister, Tessa, holding two grocery bags and grinning like she’d just surprised a celebrity.

“I told her it was a bad idea to ambush you,” Tessa said, clearly not meaning it. Winston stared at them. “What... are you doing here?” “We were in town,” his mother said matter-of-factly. “And your texts have been painfully short lately. Thought we’d check if our elusive son was still alive.”

He laughed despite himself. “Alive, yes. Ambushed, definitely.”

They made themselves comfortable like old habits never died. The quiet hum of the apartment was quickly replaced by chatter, the clinking of bowls, the flick of light switches. His mother asked about his work; Tessa teased him about “the mysterious someone” she swore was softening his tone lately. Winston tried not to show it, but his mind flicked once—maybe more—toward a woman with a silver bracelet and guarded eyes.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said casually. His mother gave him a look. “No one asked."

He smiled. “Exactly.”

His mother narrowed her eyes at him with a knowing smirk. “You always were terrible at hiding things, Winston. Even when you were little, you’d come home with jam on your shirt and swear up and down it wasn’t you who raided the fridge.”

Tessa chuckled, already digging into a bowl of rice she’d served herself.

“This one’s different though. I can tell. You’re distracted. You’ve got that... brooding artist energy going on.”

Winston rolled his eyes. “I’m not an artist.”

“Sure, sure. You’re just emotionally contemplative with a strong moral compass and soft eyes. Don’t worry, I’m not judging.”

He took a seat across from them, amused but slightly off balance. “She’s just a colleague.”

“Oh?” his mother said, too casually. “What kind of colleague makes you come home looking like you forgot where your feet are?”

He hesitated. “We’re… working on a proposal together. A joint research project between faculties.”

“And let me guess,” Tessa said, grinning. “She’s beautiful, way out of your league, and probably smarter than you.”

He gave her a dry look. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Tessa shrugged playfully. “Just making sure you’re staying humble.”

But he couldn’t lie to himself. Clarissa had gotten under his skin. The soft clicks of her measured voice, the stillness she wore like armor, the way she seemed to exist slightly out of reach. And that fleeting moment earlier—when the chocolate touched her lips, and her gaze dropped in embarrassment—it had shaken something quite loose in him.

“So, what’s her name?” his mother asked, breaking into his thoughts. He paused, hesitant. Then, with a softness he hadn’t meant to show, he said, “Clarissa.”

The name hung in the air like a warm echo. Tessa’s eyes lit up. “Oooh. It’s serious if you’re saying her name like that.”

He shook his head but didn’t argue. They spent the next hour eating and laughing. The familiar comfort of family dulled the edges of his usual thoughts, but the idea of Clarissa lingered behind every bite. When his mother went to wash the dishes and Tessa disappeared into the guest room to unpack, Winston wandered to the window, his plate still in hand.

Jakarta’s city lights blinked quietly below. He let the weight of the day fall off his shoulders in small layers. First the lecture, then the project, then Clarissa’s smile—rare and cautious like a bird that might fly away if he moved too quickly.

Maybe this project was more than just an academic collaboration. Maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something else. Something he didn’t dare name yet.

Winston was still at the window when he heard the soft patter of his mother’s footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn around, but he knew that look was coming—the one where she combined genuine concern with finely veiled interrogation. “You’re quiet,” she said, standing beside him now, arms crossed lightly over her cardigan. “And you said her name like it meant something.”

Winston didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on the glowing skyline outside. The silence between them grew familiar—his quiet resistance, her practiced patience. His mother finally broke it.

“Clarissa,” she repeated. “That’s the woman you’re working with?”

“Yes,” he replied, guarded.

“Clarissa who?”

He turned his head slightly. “Just Clarissa.”

A pause. She studied his face. “You’re not going to tell me her last name?”

“There’s no need,” Winston said calmly.

“Oh, come on, Winston,” she said with a touch of exasperation. “You know how important it is. I’m not prying for fun. If she’s serious—or if you are—it matters who she is. Where she comes from. Her family. Her world.”

“I don’t think it does,” Winston said, voice firmer now.

His mother gave a tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “You come from a family with a name. With responsibility. Connections. You’ll be taking on more public roles soon, not just part-time lectures and charming debates in classrooms. You need someone who understands the world you belong to. Someone who complements that. Not someone...”

She trailed off, waiting to see if he’d fill the silence. He didn’t.

“I’m only saying this because I care,” she went on. “It’s important you find someone in the same league, Winston. A woman who won’t make things harder. Who will support the family’s standing. Your standing.”

Winston finally turned to face her fully. His expression was neutral but unwavering. “Clarissa is brilliant. Composed. Talented. She doesn’t need anyone to shape her into anything.”

“Which is exactly why she may not be the right kind of woman,” his mother said softly, too softly. He looked away again, jaw tightening. “You don’t know her.”

“Neither do you, not really,” she countered. “But you’re already protecting her.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Because yes—he was. Not out of rebellion or defiance, but something deeper. Something instinctive. And despite his mother’s words about legacy, league, and expectations, there was a pull toward Clarissa that made all of that feel… less pressing. “She’s just a colleague,” he said after a moment, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore. His mother exhaled, unsatisfied.

“Well. Just keep your head clear, Winston. You’ve worked too hard to get lost in things that don’t fit.”

Winston gave a small nod, then watched as she walked away, her words lingering behind her like expensive perfume—subtle but inescapable.

But his thoughts were already elsewhere. Not on family legacy. Not on league. But on a quiet room filled with minimalist decor, a silver bracelet glinting under soft light, and a woman who didn’t ask for anyone’s approval to be who she was.

The conversation hadn’t left him—not even after dinner had been cleaned up, and his mother had retreated to the guest room with a magazine she never really read. Tessa had long gone to bed, headphones in, music up, avoiding the heat as usual. Winston stood in the kitchen, washing a cup that didn’t need washing, trying to cool the irritation building behind his ribs.

His mother appeared again, leaning lightly against the doorframe like she hadn’t just planted expectations on his shoulders heavy enough to buckle them. “You’re angry,” she said plainly.

“I’m tired,” he replied, setting the cup down with too much care. “That’s not the same thing.”

She ignored that. “Winston, you need to stop wasting your time playing teacher.”

“Playing?” he repeated, turning around. “You think what I do is a game?”

“I think it’s a detour,” she said, unmoved. “The family has plans for you. The board still wants to bring you into the mining side permanently—Langford Holdings is in transition. You need to show presence. Leadership. Not play house in a classroom.”

Winston shook his head. “I never said I wanted any of that.”

“It’s not about want,” she said sharply. “You owe both the Langfords and the Spencers. And you’re not a boy anymore.”

Her voice softened—but only slightly. “It’s time to settle down. Find a wife from a good family. Someone who can manage your future with dignity. Someone who understands the expectations. And yes… give us an heir. A child who will carry on the bloodline and keep both names alive.” Winston’s mouth twitched—not into a smile, but something colder. “You do remember I’m adopted, right?”

His mother’s expression froze. Just for a second. But it was enough.

“Why are you worried about heirs and names and bloodlines?” he asked, the bitterness finally slipping through. “I wasn’t born into either. I was chosen. That should’ve meant something more than obligation.”

“It does,” she said quietly, then paused before continuing. “But you were raised in this life. We gave you the best of both worlds. And with that comes duty.”

Winston folded his arms, jaw tight. “Then maybe I’ll teach those duties in a lecture hall instead of drilling them into the ground.”

“Winston—”

“I’m not going to marry someone just to check a box,” he interrupted. “And I’m definitely not going to spend my life with someone I can’t sit across from in silence and feel understood.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “So it is about this Clarissa.”

He didn’t answer. And that, of course, was answer enough. His mother sighed and turned away, her voice floating over her shoulder.

“Be careful, Winston. Romance is a luxury. Legacy isn’t.”

He stood there in the kitchen for a long while after she disappeared, the words echoing inside his skull. Romance is a luxury. But he wasn’t sure why, lately, Clarissa felt less like a luxury and more like… something vital.

Something he could no longer treat as an idea. But a person. Someone real. Someone rare. Someone he had chosen, long before he even realized it.

The apartment had gone still again. The only sound left was the ticking of the wall clock above the bookshelf—a gift from someone whose name Winston couldn’t even remember. Funny how most things in the room felt disposable, forgettable. All except for the thoughts that lingered like smoke.

He stood by the window, city lights smeared across the glass, arms crossed as his eyes focused on nothing in particular. But in his mind—her. Clarissa. Not as the so-called rector. Not as the woman from a powerful family whose name carried academic prestige like an heirloom.

Just Clarissa.

The soft lilt of her voice when she said his name—Dr. Langford, formal but never cold. The faint line of worry between her brows when she thought no one noticed. The graceful way she carried herself, spine straight, presence quiet yet certain, like she belonged to another time.

Winston closed his eyes. He saw the way the light caught the strands of her hair as she sat beside him earlier. How it framed her face like brushstrokes—so effortlessly refined, yet human. He remembered the corner of her lip where a smudge of chocolate had stayed too long, unnoticed by her, almost childlike. He remembered how she froze when he brushed it away—not out of fear, but because maybe, just maybe, no one had touched her with gentleness in a long time.

There was something about her presence. Something composed and impenetrable, yet not entirely closed off. Like a castle with one gate left ajar, as if waiting for someone who wouldn’t barge in—but ask to be let in. Her eyes haunted him the most. So much stillness in them. And sorrow. Not the kind that begged for pity—but the kind that lived quietly in the bones of someone who’d learned to survive gracefully. He found himself wondering—what would she look like if she laughed without restraint? What would her voice sound like if she was safe enough to say what she truly wanted? And what would it take… for her to let someone stay?

Winston rubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling slowly. His mother’s words still echoed faintly in his mind, sharp and demanding—but they began to lose their edge. Because the more he thought of Clarissa, the less he cared about duty, bloodlines, or legacies. She was not a strategic match. She was a question mark that felt more like a truth. And somehow, without realizing it, she had taken root in the quietest part of him.

Later that night, with the apartment cloaked in shadows, Winston sat by the small desk, the glow of his laptop screen the only light. His fingers hesitated above the keyboard, then typed in her name: Clarissa Madhava. The search results unfolded like fragments of a life he was just beginning to glimpse. Photos of a radiant Clarissa, arms wrapped around a smiling man—Harvey. Engagement photos, their happiness impossible to miss. He lingered on the image, the way they leaned into each other, the promise shining in their eyes.

Then came the darker moments. Images from the funeral, blurred and grainy but unmistakable. Clarissa, pale and overwhelmed, fainting in the arms of a colleague. Another shot—her face streaked with tears, raw and unguarded, the weight of grief pressing down like a storm.

Scrolling further, Winston found pictures of Clarissa at official university events—poised and composed, her expression steady but eyes carrying a quiet shadow. There were awards and speeches, moments captured under bright lights that demanded strength and confidence. He leaned back in his chair, breath caught somewhere between admiration and concern. Here was a woman who had lived through love and loss, strength and vulnerability—all hidden beneath the polished surface he’d first met.

The screen faded as Winston closed the laptop, but the images remained vivid in his mind. Who was she, really? And how much of herself had she let the world see?

His curiosity deepened, mingling with a strange protectiveness. There was more to Clarissa Madhava than the lecturer, the rector, the woman with the silver bracelet. There was a story he felt drawn to—one he wasn’t sure he was ready to tell, but somehow wanted to hear.

Winston rubbed his temples, a low grunt escaping him as he stared blankly at the dim ceiling above. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

Since the moment their paths collided—quite literally—in that busy hallway, Clarissa had planted herself firmly in his mind, like a persistent melody he couldn’t shake. Her calm composure, the quiet strength behind her eyes, the way she held herself even after everything he’d just uncovered about her life—it all pulled at something inside him.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Was it curiosity? Admiration? Something more tangled and unfamiliar? Whatever it was, it refused to let go. Winston muttered under his breath, “I don’t even know what you want from me, Clarissa. But you’ve got my attention.”

And for the first time in a long while, he felt both unsettled and strangely alive.

END.

[siltrace]

A New Chapter

Clarissa stepped through the arched glass doors of the University of Madhava, the late-morning sun casting a golden hue over the stone courtyard. Faculty members lined the lobby to greet her—warm smiles, respectful bows, and subtle glances filled with curiosity.

She returned each gesture with calm professionalism. On the outside, she was the perfect image of a poised new rector. But inside, memory stirred like smoke from a fire long left smoldering. This university bore her family’s name.

Its legacy was her inheritance—expected, heavy, and waiting. But she hadn’t come here to fulfill a legacy. She had come to escape one. Harvey. Even now, the name echoed like a breath caught in her throat.

He had never been a student at UMN, but a lecturer—brilliant, reserved, quietly magnetic. Clarissa was still an undergrad then, sharp, ambitious, and curious in ways that both intrigued and challenged him. He had tried to keep a distance. For a while, he succeeded. But lines blurred, and what began as shared intellect evolved into intimacy. They had nearly married once. But the timing had been wrong.

Life pulled her to Seoul, to SNU, where she earned her doctorate with honors and built a name of her own. They fell out of touch. Separate paths. Different lives.

Years later, she returned—not as a student, but a lecturer. Harvey was still there, older, steadier, and perhaps a little lonelier. The spark reignited effortlessly, but this time, with more maturity, more intention.

They weren’t fumbling students anymore. They were scholars, partners—equals. They got engaged on March night, on the beach, during sunset. It wasn’t grand. It didn’t have to be. They had found their way back to each other.

But fate was cruel.

The accident happened last month, on their way back from a dinner with Christian to let him know their relationship. The next thing, she woke up with the sudden news of death.

Her previous campus became unbearable after that. Every hallway carried his scent, every classroom his cadence. Even the silence reminded her of him. She taught through it for a year, barely. And then she handed in her resignation, packed what was left of her life, and drove away from the city where their love had both bloomed and shattered.

The University of Madhava had always been in the background. Her family’s legacy. Her father’s unfinished dreams.

When the board offered her the role of rector, she surprised even herself by accepting. Not because she felt ready—but because she needed to believe there was still a future ahead of her, not just a past behind. She had hoped that this would be the fresh start she needed. To leave behind the shadows of her former life, of her time at UMN and her painful memories with Harvey. But she quickly realized that running away from those ghosts wouldn’t bring peace.

It only made them follow her more closely, like invisible tendrils that crept through every quiet moment, every empty corner of her new life. Clarissa took a deep breath and turned her attention back to the paperwork on her desk.

As rector, she had responsibilities—decisions to make, policies to implement, visions to shape. The board was already eager to see her vision for the future. Her family’s legacy depended on her success, after all.

The door creaked open behind her, and she turned to see one of her assistants, a young woman named Leena, standing hesitantly in the doorway. "Bu Clarissa," Leena said, her voice polite but uncertain. "I just wanted to remind you that you have a meeting with the finance committee in half an hour. They’re waiting for you in the conference room."

Clarissa nodded, gathering her things and standing up. She felt the eyes of the staff follow her as she walked out into the hallway. Their curiosity was palpable. She wasn’t sure if it was admiration or skepticism, but it was a sharp reminder that she wasn’t here to coast. They expected results—and she expected even more from herself.

As she entered the conference room, the committee members greeted her with formal nods, their faces a mix of politeness and wariness. They were all older than her, some with decades of experience in academia, others with years of administrative know-how. Clarissa, young and still navigating the weight of both her family’s expectations and her own ambitions, could feel the subtle tension in the air. The university’s finances were tight, and the pressure to make bold, sometimes risky decisions weighed on everyone’s shoulders.

"Ibu Clarissa," the chair of the committee, Professor Nathan, spoke first, his voice deep and measured. "Thank you for meeting with us today. We’ve reviewed the budget projections, but there are some concerns about your proposed changes to faculty compensation. You’ve recommended increases in some areas, but we’ll need to make cuts in others to balance it out. Our donors expect fiscal prudence, and any shift in compensation might raise questions."

Clarissa leaned forward, her fingers tapping lightly on the polished wood of the table. She had anticipated this. The need to appease both the donors and the faculty was a delicate balancing act. But she was determined to make her mark—to change the direction of the university, to push it beyond the status quo.

"I understand the concern," she said calmly, meeting each of their gazes. "But if we don’t invest in our people—if we don’t ensure our faculty are compensated fairly—we risk losing the very talent that makes this institution thrive. Our students deserve the best, and that starts with the best professors. If we cut corners here, we’re cutting corners on our future."

There was silence. Professor Nathan's gaze softened, but only slightly. The committee members exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond. Clarissa knew she had to convince them. She wasn’t here to be liked. She was here to lead—and to challenge. "I propose that we look for other areas where we can streamline costs—perhaps by expanding our online offerings or strengthening partnerships with other institutions. This would generate additional revenue without compromising our faculty’s welfare. We need to think outside the box."

The room grew quieter as they processed her words. Professor Nathan cleared his throat. "We’ll consider it," he said, after a moment. "But I must caution you, Dr. Clarissa—this is a delicate time for the university. Any decisions we make now could either stabilize our future or jeopardize it."

Clarissa nodded, recognizing the weight of the challenge.

She wasn’t just stepping into a role of leadership—she was inheriting a complex web of history, expectations, and financial pressure. But she was ready to push forward, even if it meant making difficult decisions.

As the meeting adjourned and the committee members filed out, Clarissa sat for a moment longer, her mind racing with possibilities. She wasn’t here to be anyone’s comfort zone. She was here to reshape the future of this university—and, in doing so, to reshape herself.

Later that evening, as Clarissa returned to her office, she found herself facing the silence once more. The walls of her office were lined with books, but the room still felt hollow, as if it had not yet embraced her. She glanced at the window, the view of the university stretching out in front of her. The path ahead was unclear, but she knew this was the only way forward.

The memories of Harvey didn’t disappear. But they began to feel less like an anchor, and more like a distant echo. She had come here to leave the past behind, to create something new. And though the road ahead would be difficult, she couldn’t afford to turn back.

Clarissa’s phone buzzed on her desk, and she glanced at the screen.

It wasn’t the usual string of work-related notifications or emails. No, this was a number she hadn’t expected to see today—her father’s name flashed across the screen. Clarissa froze for a moment. It wasn’t often her father reached out to her directly—at least, not without a purpose. Not without something official to discuss, or something to ask of her. He wasn’t the type to engage in idle chatter. Over the years, they had communicated mostly through his lawyers, assistants, or the occasional, brief formal letter.

His relationship with her had always been about the family business, the legacy, and the university. It had never been personal. Especially with Kirana's arrival.

With a mix of hesitation and curiosity, Clarissa picked up the phone. She pressed it to her ear.

“Papa?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Clarissa could hear the faint sound of papers shuffling, followed by a soft exhale before he finally spoke, his voice a little less sure than usual. “Flo,” he said, the usual formal tone in his voice now softened. “How are you? How’s the first day going?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. Her father had never asked about her well-being in such an open, casual way.

“It’s… it’s going well. Busy, as expected,” she replied, careful with her words. “A lot to manage. But nothing I can’t handle.”

There was another silence, this one longer. Clarissa could feel the distance between them. It was as if her father was trying to find a way to speak to her, not as the future of the family legacy, but as his daughter. The conversation had never really ventured into personal territory before. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you,” he finally said. “Everything that happened… with the university, and…”

His voice faltered briefly, as if uncertain whether he should mention Harvey, or how to address it. Clarissa felt a pang in her chest. The ghost of Harvey was still a part of this conversation, even if they hadn’t spoken his name. It always would be.

“It hasn’t been,” she admitted quietly. “But I’m moving forward.” Her father’s tone shifted, almost imperceptibly. “I’m… I’m glad to hear that. You’ve always been strong. Your mother and I, we—we want what’s best for you. We want you to succeed in this role, Flo. For the university. For yourself. But, more importantly, for your peace.”

Clarissa’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t heard her father speak like this in years. In fact, it felt almost like an apology—a quiet acknowledgment that the past had been harder than either of them had let on.

"I don’t know if I can ever fully reconcile everything,” she said, her voice soft, the words heavier than she expected. “But I’m trying. And I’m here. This is my choice. My future."

There was a long silence on the other end, and then, finally, her father’s voice again, softer than she had ever heard it before. “I know, Flo. And I know I haven’t always made it easy for you. But I’m proud of you. I… I’m proud of what you’re doing. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. Whatever you need—"

He stopped, perhaps realizing how vulnerable he sounded. “I’ll be here.”

Clarissa’s heart tightened. This wasn’t just about the university anymore. It was about the fragile attempt at rebuilding a connection with her father—an attempt she never thought would happen, especially after everything that had passed between them. “Thank you,” she whispered, unsure of what else to say.

"Just—” He cleared his throat. “Just know that I’m here.

f you ever want to talk. Not about business, just about… anything.” For a moment, Clarissa was lost for words. Her father had always kept her at arm's length, speaking to her only in terms of responsibility, expectation, and legacy. This gesture—this small, unexpected attempt at reconciliation—felt like the first real crack in that distance. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll call you soon, Papa.”

“Take care of yourself, Flo. And remember—you’re never alone in this.”

With a soft click, the call ended. Clarissa stood there for a long moment, staring at the phone in her hand, her heart still beating a little faster than normal. Her father had reached out—no demands, no expectations, just… a simple gesture of care.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

In that moment, Clarissa realized that perhaps this new chapter wasn’t just about running away from her past. It was about rebuilding the pieces that had broken, reconnecting with those she had lost along the way—her father, her family, herself.

She placed the phone down slowly, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the room. Clarissa walked to the window and looked out at the university below. The future was still uncertain. But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be faced alone.

The phone sat silently on her desk, its screen now dark. Yet the echo of her father’s voice lingered in the room, in her chest, in the softened stillness that followed. Clarissa stood by the window, arms folded across her chest, her gaze drifting beyond the university buildings to the dusky sky. The sun had dipped just below the horizon, bleeding pale orange light into a wash of violet. The campus lights flickered on one by one like cautious thoughts finding form.

She wasn’t used to this kind of conversation from him. Her father had always been a man of direction and purpose. When he spoke, it was usually about what needed to be done, what could ot fail, what must be protected—namely, the university and the family name. But today… today he had simply asked how she was. Not for a report. Not as a rector.

But as Clarissa. As his daughter.

Her fingers lightly traced the edge of the windowsill. Had grief changed him too? She didn’t know if she was ready to forgive the distance he had kept over the years. But maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe reconciliation didn’t arrive all at once, like an apology wrapped in closure. Maybe it came in small, uneven moments—an unexpected phone call, a pause before saying goodbye, a sentence left open at the end.

The wind stirred the trees below. She followed the path with her eyes—the one that wound past the library and the courtyard, lined with benches where she used to sit with her late mother back then, back when she was still a child and the university felt impossibly grand. Back when the future was only a distant thing she couldn’t yet name.

She’d thought returning here might bring her closer to her family, to her roots. But it had mostly reminded her of what she’d lost—Harvey, her sense of certainty, even pieces of herself. And yet, today felt different. Like something had opened. Maybe her father didn’t know how to reach her before. Or maybe he was just now learning how to try.

Clarissa closed her eyes and let her forehead rest lightly against the cool glass. Her breath fogged the window for a moment before clearing again.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.”

She had carried so much for so long—on her own terms, in her own silence. It had kept her going, yes. But it had also kept people out. She had built walls even she couldn’t always explain.

Now, as the evening deepened and the sky turned from violet to slate, Clarissa wondered if it was finally time to let someone in—even just a little.

A soft knock came at the door. She straightened, composed herself. “Yes?”

Leena peeked in again, gentler this time. “Just wanted to let you know the orientation planning committee rescheduled to tomorrow morning. You’re free for the evening.”

Clarissa nodded. “Thank you, Leena.”

As the door closed, she turned back to the view. The campus lights now twinkled steadily, like stars that had always been there, waiting to be noticed. She stayed there a moment longer, quietly watching, before she finally moved from the window, picked up her phone, and sent a short message.

𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗜’𝗺 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗸𝗮𝘆. 𝗜 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗼. She hit send before she could overthink it. Then, with the faintest exhale, Clarissa reached for her coat.

The night was quiet and wide open, and for the first time in a long while, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to face it alone.

END.

[siltrace]

The Last Message

April 6, 2025

The late afternoon carried a tranquil stillness, wrapping everything in the soft, amber light of the setting sun. The sky above was painted in strokes of orange and gold, a quiet prelude to twilight.

Dewi sat comfortably in her familiar spot—an old stone chair nestled beneath the shadow of her home, overlooking the modest yet cherished expanse of her backyard. The air was mild, touched with the scent of earth and flowering trees.

On the small coffee table beside her, a steaming cup of tea released gentle wisps into the air, its warmth matching the peace in her heart. Though alone, she was far from lonely. She let her gaze wander across the landscape she knew so well—every tree and shrub, every curve of the garden shaped by years of care and love. These quiet moments had become her favorite part of the day, when time seemed to pause just long enough for reflection.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the calm.

“There you are, Ibu,” Arya said warmly as he approached and settled onto the bench next to her. His presence brought a different kind of quiet—one weighted by things unspoken. Dewi turned to him, her face softening with a tender smile that reached all the way to her eyes. “How are the children, Arya?” she asked, her tone gentle and affectionate, laced with that quiet concern only a mother could carry.

Arya gave a slow nod, pausing as he gathered his thoughts. The question, though simple, carried layers he hadn’t quite prepared for. “They’re all right,” he began. “Kala and Kaluna are doing fine. Dewa, Rose, and his children are well too. Flo…” he hesitated, “she’s struggling a bit. Hanging in there, but barely.”

There was a moment of silence before he continued. “The younger three—”

Dewi raised a hand slightly, stopping him with a kind but pointed interruption. “Why don’t we focus on the first three for now?” she said softly, though there was a firmness in her tone. “I haven’t seen them around you much lately. The younger ones you have with Kirana seem to be the ones spending the most time with you these days.”

Her words hung in the air, not accusing, but observant. Arya didn’t protest—he couldn’t. She had spoken the truth. Over the years, his relationship with his older children had quietly eroded, while his attention had shifted more and more toward the younger ones, those still under Kirana’s wing. The distance between him and the first three had grown, almost unnoticed, until it became the norm. Then Dewi shifted the conversation, her voice low and filled with quiet curiosity.

“And how is she coping? After the loss of her fiancé?” Arya exhaled, his answer clipped and vague. “She’s in good hands.”

But Dewi wasn’t satisfied with that. “Why not yours?” she asked, her gaze steady. Arya fell silent.

Dewi waited, then continued in the same calm tone. “I understand the twins. They have families of their own now, their lives are full, and they’ve found their own rhythms. But what happened between you and Flo, Arya? That one seems different.”

Her voice was neither confrontational nor cold—just a mother’s voice, searching gently for clarity where there had been only silence. She wasn’t pressing for answers, not urgently. But she was giving him the space, and perhaps the chance, to be honest—not only with her, but with himself.

Arya lowered his gaze, his fingers absently tracing the curve of the bench’s worn armrest. The fading light cast long shadows across the yard, and with it came the quiet weight of memories he hadn’t dared to revisit in a long time. “I don’t know what to do with her,” he finally said, his voice almost a whisper, as if ashamed to admit it aloud. Dewi remained quiet, letting the silence cushion his words instead of interrupting.

"She’s angry,” Arya continued. “And hurt. Not just from losing him—but from me. From everything. Every time I try to talk to her, there’s this wall, and I can’t seem to find the door anymore.” He paused, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "Sometimes I think she doesn’t even want me there. Like my presence just reminds her of what’s missing.”

“She’s grieving, Arya. But not just for him,” Dewi said gently. “Flo’s been grieving the version of you she needed but didn’t have. The one who stayed close when things started falling apart.” Arya swallowed hard. That version of himself—he knew her words were true.

There had been moments when he could’ve stepped in, said more, done more, stayed longer. But he hadn’t. Maybe he’d convinced himself she was strong enough, that she didn’t need him hovering. Or maybe, deep down, he had pulled away because he hadn’t known how to hold the pain she carried.

“I don’t even know how to begin again with her,” he admitted. “She’s like a stranger now, but somehow still my daughter. I see her in the hallway at family gatherings, standing on the edge of the room, holding back. And I just... I just nod. Like a fool. Like that’s all I have left to offer.”

Dewi sighed softly, her eyes on the horizon. The sun had nearly dipped beneath the trees, casting the sky into deeper hues of red and purple. “It won’t be easy. It shouldn’t be. But you’re her father, Arya. And sometimes, even when you don’t know what to do, you still show up. Not with the answers, but with the willingness to try.”

Arya said nothing, but the words settled in his chest like a quiet resolve. Maybe he wouldn’t fix it in a day, or even a season. But maybe Flo didn’t need fixing—maybe she just needed him to stop vanishing every time it got difficult.

“She’s still your little girl, somewhere in there,” Dewi added softly. “And she’s waiting to see if you’ll come looking for her.”

The tea between them had long gone cold, but the evening held its own warmth—a fragile, unspoken hope that some things, though broken, could still be mended with time. Arya’s eyes fixed on the ground. His voice, when it came again, was more certain, though still weighed with doubt. “She was always the strongest,” he said, more to himself than to Dewi. “Even as a kid—Flo didn’t cry when she scraped her knees. Didn’t complain when things got tough. She was the one holding her brothers together after… after Tatya passed. I remember thinking, ‘She’s going to be just fine.’ So I trusted her more. Gave her space. Thought she didn’t need as much from me as the others did.”

Dewi listened without interruption, her hands folded in her lap. The evening breeze rustled the leaves, but neither of them moved. “She took on so much,” Arya continued, his tone mixed with admiration and guilt. “She helped cheer the twins when I could barely hold myself together. She kept the house lights up. She was just a girl, but she acted like someone twice her age. I guess I saw that and thought she didn’t need me as much anymore.”

A long pause followed.

Dewi finally broke it, her voice steady but laced with sorrow. “Or maybe that strength wasn’t strength at all,” she said quietly. “Maybe it was just her way of surviving.”

Arya turned to look at her, uncertain.

“She lost her mother too young, Arya. That kind of grief—it doesn’t just harden you, it isolates you. You said she didn’t cry. But children are supposed to cry. They’re supposed to break down, ask for help, fall apart now and then. What if she stopped doing that because she didn’t think she could afford to?”

Arya opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn’t thought of it like that. Not really. Dewi’s eyes met his. “Did you notice how she changed after Kirana came into the picture?”

Arya blinked, caught off guard by the question. “She… kept her distance,” he admitted. “She was polite, but cold. I always chalked it up to her being more guarded. But she never said much. Flo—she’s never fully accepted Kirana. Not really. The boys too.”

“She didn’t just lose a mother,” Dewi said gently. “She watched you love another woman while she was still trying to understand why the first was gone. That does something to a child. Maybe she never felt like she had permission to grieve. Or worse—maybe she thought being ‘okay’ was the only way to stay close to you. To not burden you.”

Arya inhaled deeply, his chest heavy. “I thought I was doing the right thing. Giving her space. Trusting her strength.”

“Maybe now it’s time to give her the opposite,” Dewi said softly. “Presence. Patience. Let her be weak in front of you, if she ever dares to. Let her know you’ll stay, even if she pushes. Even if it hurts.”

The last light of day dipped below the horizon. Arya sat in silence, the weight of his own missteps settling in his bones. He had always believed love was shown by trust. But now he saw there had been a cost to his distance—and it had been paid in silence by a a girl who had once just wanted her father to notice her pain. Dewi’s eyes didn’t leave Arya’s face as she spoke, her voice low but firm with feeling.

“You should try letting her in again, Arya,” she said. “Not just into the house, but into your life. Into your heart, where she used to live before all the silence.”

Arya looked up, brows slightly furrowed. He was listening now—not just hearing, but truly listening. “She’s been alone for a long time,” Dewi continued, her voice softening. “Not because she had to be, but because she didn’t know where she belonged anymore. She left for years, lived oceans away, and no one really stopped her. Do you know how lonely she must’ve been? How much of herself she had to let go just to keep moving forward?”

Arya swallowed hard. A flicker of memory came to him—Flo at the airport, her back turned, her goodbye short, eyes too dry for someone leaving behind a whole family.

“She doesn’t even speak Indonesian fluently anymore,” Dewi added, her voice breaking just slightly. “When she visits, she struggles to find the words. It’s like she’s drifting even further, piece by piece, and no one’s holding on tight enough to stop it.”

Arya felt that hit deep—shame, regret, and a quiet ache settling in his chest. “But Arya,” she said gently, “I never blamed you for marrying Kirana. Nor do I blame her. Life moved on. People heal in different ways. I understand that. But just because you started a new chapter doesn’t mean you had to close the book on the first three.”

He nodded slowly, shame now open on his face.

“Hug them too,” she said. “Not just the little ones who run to you. Hug your firstborn. Hug your second. And hug Flo, even if she doesn’t hug back. One day, she’ll belong to someone else again. You already know how that feels—when she nearly married before, remember? The distance wasn’t just physical then. She gave herself to another man, and for a while, she stopped being yours.”

Arya looked away, jaw clenched.

“And you lost her then,” Dewi said, gently but without flinching. “You might lose her again, and it’ll hurt even more this time if you haven’t made peace. If she walks away still carrying the weight of what was never said.”

Arya closed his eyes for a long moment. In that stillness, he heard it all—the years that had slipped by, the birthdays missed, the long silences on calls, the polite conversations that never reached the heart of anything.

“She’s still your daughter,” Dewi said softly. “And she’s still waiting—no matter how far she’s gone, or how strong she pretends to be.”

The last of the light was gone now, and the stars began to emerge in the deepening sky. Arya looked up at them, as if searching for something in the vast quiet above. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe courage.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” he murmured. “It isn’t,” Dewi said, her voice steady. “But you need to reach before she forgets how to reach back.”

Dewi’s gaze lingered on Arya, watching as his thoughts folded in on themselves, caught somewhere between memory and regret. She gave him a moment, letting the silence settle like dust, before she spoke again—her voice firm, yet filled with compassion.

“But remember, Arya,” she said quietly, “she’s grieving. Harvey’s death… it’s still fresh. That kind of pain doesn’t lift easily. It sits in the chest like a stone, and no amount of words can move it right now.”

Arya nodded slowly, eyes downcast. The name alone—Harvey—was enough to stir a storm of memories. The man who had once almost become part of their family. The man Flo had loved. The man she lost.

“Let her find her peace first,” Dewi said. “Don’t force your way in. Just… be there. Let her know that when she’s ready to reach, her father is still within reach too.” She paused, then added with quiet intensity, “And if anyone tries to push her aside again… you stand up for her. For all of them. Flo. Dewa. Kala. They were your first home, Arya. Don’t let them feel like strangers in their own family.”

Arya looked up at her then, his expression tightening with emotion he hadn’t dared show in years. Regret. Anger—at himself, mostly. And something else, quieter: a sense of responsibility returning to him like gravity. Dewi reached out and placed her hand over his.

“You’re the father,” she said. “You always have been. And sometimes, Arya, a father has to choose. Not because he wants to divide, but because standing still means losing everyone.”

He swallowed, but said nothing.

“This choice—it’s yours,” Dewi whispered. “No one else can make it. Not Kirana. Not your children. Not me. You have the power to bring them closer. Or to keep watching them slip away.”

A silence stretched between them, dense with understanding. Then Dewi added gently, “You don’t have to fix everything all at once. Just… don’t stay silent. Don’t stay still.” Arya breathed deeply, the air heavy in his lungs. The night had fully claimed the sky now, but in his chest, a small light sparked—fragile, but lit nonetheless. And this time, he promised himself he would not look away.

Dewi leaned back into her chair, her eyes drifting out toward the quiet horizon, the twilight deepening into night. The stars were brighter now, shimmering above the trees like soft reminders of time quietly passing. “You know,” she said after a long pause, “I miss those days. When the house was filled with little feet running around. When it was just the three of them—Dewa, Kala, and little Flo.”

Arya’s shoulders dropped slightly, a tender expression flickering in his eyes as he listened. “They were always around me,” Dewi continued, smiling faintly. “Climbing onto my lap, dragging their toys across the floor, asking for stories… Flo used to braid my hair with those tiny hands of hers, remember? Even when she barely knew how. She was always so careful, so focused. Such a thoughtful child.”

Arya nodded, saying nothing, but the memories came easily now—like photos tucked away in an old drawer. Tatya’s laughter in the background. The sunlit living room. A toddler Flo spinning in a dress two sizes too big.

“Back then,” Dewi added quietly, “there was no Kirana yet. No new children. No weight of distance or divided time. But I’m not saying this to blame her. want you to know that. Kirana didn’t take anything away. She came into what was already broken and tried to build something new.” Arya glanced over at her, eyes reflecting the truth of that.

He knew it, too.

“But the past still matters,” Dewi said softly. “And what came before deserves to be remembered.” She sighed gently. “The three of them—your first children—they’ve changed so much. Each in their own way. Dewa became quieter. Kala, more reserved. And Flo… Flo didn’t just grow up. She disappeared. Bit by bit. Out of family photos. Out of conversations. Out of frame.”

Arya closed his eyes for a moment, the ache now undeniable.

“I keep thinking,” Dewi said, her voice more fragile now, “isn’t she your first love?”

Arya’s head turned sharply, eyes wide. “You and Tatya,” Dewi continued, her gaze now on him, steady and soft, “you cried the day she was born. I remember it. You were so proud. You called her your little miracle. You said she was too perfect for this world, too beautiful to be real. I watched you hold her like the most delicate thing you’d ever touched.”

Arya’s throat tightened. He remembered. Every word. Every breath in that hospital room. The way Tatya looked at him, teary-eyed, as if they’d just been handed a blessing too big to understand. “You loved her,” Dewi whispered. “And she loved you, completely. That bond… it was strong once. Don’t let it fade just because time got in the way.”

She reached over again, squeezing his hand. “You still have time, Arya. Maybe not forever—but still enough.”

Arya stared at the stars above. The memories were alive now, loud in his chest. And somewhere in the distance, he could almost hear a little girl’s laugh, echoing faintly, waiting to be remembered. Arya took a long breath, as if drawing strength from the very air. He stared into the darkness ahead, his voice low but steady when he finally spoke.

“I remember that day,” he said, almost in a whisper. “The day Flo was born.”

Dewi turned to him, listening intently, quietly. “I remember holding her for the first time. She was so small, so calm. Her eyes… they were wide open, like she was already reading the world. And Tatya—” his voice caught briefly, “—she looked at me like we’d just done something divine. We both cried. We were terrified and overwhelmed and so deeply in love with that little girl.”

His voice trembled slightly, but he didn’t stop. “She was my first love. No question about that. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done for her. She used to hold my finger in her sleep, like she didn’t want to let go. And I used to think—I’ll protect her from everything. Always.”

He paused, the silence wrapping around his confession like a blanket. Dewi didn’t interrupt.

“But then life happened,” he continued. “Tatya got sick. I was barely surviving. I made decisions, one after another, just trying to keep things moving. Then Kirana came. She helped. She filled the gaps I couldn’t. And I let myself believe that the older three were strong enough to stand without me.”

He shook his head slowly. “I told myself they were growing up, that they needed space. That maybe it was better for them to adjust on their own. But what I was really doing was stepping back… and calling it trust.”

Dewi’s eyes softened, her heart aching for both the father and the man beside her. “I see now how much I missed,” Arya said. “How many chances I let pass. And Flo… she kept drifting because I didn’t anchor her. I thought giving her freedom was love, but maybe she just needed me to hold on.”

He leaned back slightly, shoulders heavy with years of silence. “I don’t know how to go back. I don’t know if I even deserve to. But I want to try. I need to try.”

Dewi reached out, placing her hand on his arm. “Then start there,” she said gently. “With that want. That need. She’ll feel it—even if it takes time.”

Arya nodded slowly, tears pooling behind his eyes. “I’ll wait until she’s ready. I won’t force it. But I’ll be here, Ibu. This time, I won’t disappear.”

A small smile tugged at Dewi’s lips—tired, but hopeful. She had waited years to hear those words. And even if nothing else happened tonight, that alone was enough.

The night had fully settled now. The crickets sang softly in the grass, and the breeze carried the scent of earth and old jasmine from the garden. Dewi sipped the last of her cold tea, not minding the chill—it had been a good talk. A necessary one.

Arya sat beside her, quieter now, but lighter somehow. Not unburdened, but no longer trapped beneath the weight of silence. His thoughts were still tangled, his heart still aching, but something had shifted. He had remembered who he was—who he used to be to them. To her.

“I think I’ll stay a little longer,” he said softly. Dewi smiled without turning. “Good. It’s about time.”

They sat there in the hush of the night, side by side, like they had in years long gone—when the house was full, and the past wasn’t something to mourn. Just two old souls keeping watch over what still remained, and what might still be repaired.

Somewhere out there, his daughter grieved in silence. But now, finally, her father would be waiting—no longer absent, no longer distant. And that, at least, was a start.

END.

[siltrace]

Time to Let Go

It had been several days since Clarissa submitted her resignation letter—both to the HR department and to David, her former lecturer turned colleague, who was currently serving as the acting Head of the Study Program.

He had once invited her to return to her alma mater, UMN, to join as a lecturer and eventually succeed him in leading the program. But after everything that had happened between her and Harvey—and the grief and pain that followed—Clarissa had spent a great deal of time reflecting on her decision. In the end, it was final: she would be leaving UMN for good. She needed to walk away from the pain, from the traumatic memories, and from the weight of a place that no longer felt like home.

It was time to move forward with her life—the life she had once left behind, returned to, and now found herself entangled in again. She believed that leaving would bring peace. That resigning would bring closure. It had become too difficult to walk the halls of UMN without seeing shadows of Harvey everywhere—within the very building where their love had first blossomed, back when she was still a student, and later, a lecturer.

Besides, her family owned their own university, and she felt it was time to step way from external obligations and devote herself fully to the responsibilities waiting at home. And so, with conviction, she left UMN behind. Clarissa would now be teaching at the University of Madhava—not just as a lecturer, but as their newly appointed rector.

Her last day was supposed to be tomorrow. But flying back was out of the question. The 𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘯 ceremony may have ended earlier today, yet there was still so much to take care of—family matters, deep and complex, all unfolding so suddenly.

There had been no time, no proper way, to say goodbye in person. So that evening, once everything was settled for the day and she had finally returned to her room, Clarissa opened her laptop and joined a Zoom call to say her farewells.

“Hi,” she greeted softly.

It was clear to everyone on the screen that she was exhausted—from the day’s responsibilities, and from the relentless grief that had been weighing her down. Two deaths in less than a month—no one could truly prepare for that. For Clarissa, it had been overwhelming, trying to navigate everything while keeping her own emotions in check.

The others greeted her warmly, their faces lighting up at the sight of her. Still dressed in her black 𝘬𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘢, Clarissa gave a small wave to the camera. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there in person to say goodbye,” she began. “It’s been such a meaningful experience to work—and study—here. Having all of you as colleagues has been more than I ever hoped for.”

She paused, taking a quiet breath. “But I’ve come to a difficult decision. I’ve chosen to resign… for my own well-being. I believe you all understand the reasons why.”

Her voice remained gentle and composed, though her heart still ached beneath it all. “I’ll be starting a new chapter now, joining my family’s university—University of Madhava—as both a lecturer and its newly appointed rector. I truly hope that even as I leave my alma mater behind, we’ll stay in touch and perhaps find ways to collaborate in the future.”

There was a moment of silence after Clarissa finished speaking—one of those full silences, heavy with shared emotion. Then came a chorus of soft acknowledgments: nods, gentle smiles, and quiet words of support.

David, the acting head of the study program, was the first to speak. His voice was warm, but slightly strained, as if he, too, had been holding back emotion.

“Clarissa,” he said, “you’ve given so much to this program in such a short time. It’s a loss for us, truly, but I know you’re making the right choice for yourself—and that’s what matters. You’ve always carried yourself with heart and purpose. Madhava is lucky to have you.”

Others followed.

“Please take care of yourself,” one of the senior lecturers added, her eyes glistening. “You’ve been through more than anyone should in such a short time. We’ll miss your spirit here.”

“You’ve left a mark,” another colleague said with a kind smile. “Not just with your work, but with your presence. Always thoughtful, always sincere.”

There were quiet nods around the screen. A few lecturers looked down, visibly moved, while others tried to lighten the moment with warm, nostalgic stories—recalling her student days, her first few lectures, even a funny memory from her early days joining the team. Clarissa smiled through it all, deeply touched. Her chest tightened—not with regret, but with gratitude.

“We’ll keep the door open for you,” David said. “In any form. As a collaborator. A guest lecturer. Even just for coffee.”

Clarissa nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Truly.”

One by one, the other lecturers began saying their goodbyes, each offering warm wishes and heartfelt encouragement. The screen gradually emptied—some with waves, others with brief farewells typed in the chat. Eventually, the call room fell quiet, until only two participants remained. David and Clarissa.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward—just full. Familiar. Heavy with the unspoken things that had built up over time. David leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling. “You still there?”

Clarissa gave a small smile. “Still here.”

He nodded. “I figured you might want a moment without everyone else watching.”

She looked down briefly, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Thank you. For staying.”

David’s expression softened. “Of course.”

There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time quieter. “I know this wasn’t an easy decision for you.”

“No,” Clarissa said, her voice nearly a whisper. “It wasn’t.” David hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. But I want you to know… I understand. About everything. About why you have to go.”

Clarissa swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting in her eyes. “I loved being here, David. I really did. I just… I can’t stay in a place that hurts too much to walk through.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. And I’m sorry that it turned out this way. If I could’ve protected you from it—”

“You don’t have to say that,” she cut in gently. “You gave me a chance when I didn’t know I needed one. That means more to me than anything else.”

David’s voice dropped a little. “You would’ve made a great head of program.”

Clarissa smiled, bittersweet. “Maybe in another life.”

A soft laugh passed between them—tired, but genuine.

“Promise me one thing,” David said, leaning forward now, his tone more sincere than ever. “Don’t disappear, again. I know this goodbye feels like a closing door, but you’re not alone in this. If you ever need to talk—or yell at the world—just call.”

There was a pause before she took a quiet breath, then looked directly at the screen. “Pak David… I never really said this properly, but—thank you. For everything.”

His brow furrowed gently, and she continued.

“You’ve been looking out for me since I was a student. You believed in me before I believed in myself. You supported me when I didn’t know where I belonged. And even now… you tried to protect me. You always did.”

David’s gaze dropped for a second, as if holding back emotion.

“Clarissa—”

“No, let me finish,” she said softly. “I know there were things even you couldn’t stop from happening. And I don’t blame you for any of it. But I need you to know that your presence… your kindness… it helped more than you know. You were the one constant I could count on in all this.”

He looked back up at her, quiet for a long moment. “Thank you. That means more to me than I can say.”

“And yes, I promise. I promise I’ll give you a call if anything happens.”

And for a few more seconds, they sat there in silence. Two colleagues. Two friends. Bound by shared history, parted by the weight of life.

“Take care of yourself, Clarissa,” he said finally. “You too, Pak David.”

Then, with one last look—full of unspoken gratitude and quiet respect—she clicked Leave Meeting. And the screen went dark.

Her laptop was closed, the room quiet except for the distant hum of cicadas outside. The 𝘬𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘢 she wore felt heavier now, as if soaked in the weight of the day, of all the goodbyes, of all that had been left unsaid. She leaned back against the headboard of the modest guest room she’d been staying in—her family home in Bali, familiar and yet distant in the haze of grief. The ceremony had ended, the guests had gone, the rituals completed. But the emptiness remained.

Two losses in less than a month. Her heart didn’t know which pain to carry first.

Clarissa stared up at the ceiling, her fingers absentmindedly twisting the edge of her sleeve.

David’s words lingered in her mind. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘮. Maybe.

But she no longer wanted to carry what came with it—the ghosts, the weight, the memories. She hadn’t just resigned from a job. She had let go of a version of herself that once dreamed of growing roots in a place she thought she’d always belong.

A quiet breath escaped her lips. Was this what growing meant? Not triumph, but release? Not certainty, but surrender?

And yet—there was something in the goodbye tonight that felt… complete. Not perfect, not painless, but whole in its own way. She had said what needed to be said. She had thanked David, the one person who had truly stood by her—across time, across roles, from lecturer to colleague to quiet protector. That mattered.

Her gaze shifted to her suitcase in the corner of the room. She hadn’t packed yet, but tomorrow she would. Tomorrow, she would leave Bali and step into a new chapter—at Madhava, where her new family awaited her. Where duty called, and perhaps, in time, purpose would follow. But for tonight, she allowed herself to simply exist.

No titles, no decisions. Just Clarissa. A woman grieving, healing, and somehow, still standing.

She closed her eyes. And for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel so heavy. But the silence didn’t last.

As soon as Clarissa closed her eyes, the dam broke. It began with a single, sharp breath—one she hadn’t meant to take. One that caught in her throat, trembled in her chest, and cracked open everything she had been trying so hard to hold together. Then the tears came.

Not graceful or quiet, but raw—deep, aching sobs that wracked her body as she curled forward, burying her face in her hands.

All the grief, the pressure, the unspoken pain poured out of her like a storm she could no longer contain. She wept for the two people she had lost. For the things she never got to say. For the dreams she had once chased through the corridors of UMN—now ghostly memories she had been forced to leave behind.

She wept for Harvey. For the love that had bloomed and died in the very place she once called home. And she wept for herself—for the version of Clarissa who had smiled through meetings, who had put on brave aces for colleagues, who had tried to be okay even when she was slowly unraveling inside.

No one was watching now. No one needed her to be strong.

The sobs grew heavier, pulling her down until she lay on her side, knees drawn in, still in her black 𝘬𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘢, her face damp and flushed. The fabric clung to her, crumpled and soaked in tears, as though carrying the sorrow with her. She had been so composed in the call—so calm, so careful with her words. She had smiled when it hurt.

She had thanked when her voice wanted to crack. She had said goodbye without letting herself break. But now—now she let it all out.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time blurred in grief. And when the tears finally began to slow, replaced by the rhythmic ache of exhaustion, she stayed there in the quiet.

Breathing. Empty. Hollowed out—but honest.

This pain, as unbearable as it was, felt necessary. Like the end of a storm that had been building inside her for far too long. Eventually, her breathing softened, her body stilled. Her eyes remained open, staring blankly toward the wall. Tomorrow, she would begin again. But tonight… she mourned everything she had to leave behind.

Eventually, her body gave her no choice but to move. Her tears had dried into salty streaks down her cheeks, and her eyes ached from the strain. Clarissa slowly sat up, wiped her face with trembling fingers, and stared at her reflection in the darkened window across the room. She barely recognized herself—eyes swollen, lips quivering, hair coming undone. But there was still something she needed.

Something to wash this heaviness off her skin, even if it wouldn’t reach her heart.

She stood and stepped into the small adjoining bathroom, turned on the shower, and let the water run until it steamed up the mirror. With slow, quiet movements, she removed the black 𝘬𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘢, folding it carefully despite her weariness, as if it still held meaning she wasn’t ready to let go of.

Then she stepped into the shower. The water was hot, almost too hot—but she didn’t flinch. It rushed over her shoulders, down her back, soaking her hair and skin, as if trying to melt the grief off her body.

At first, she just stood there—head bowed, arms hanging by her sides—letting the stream pound against her like a silent absolution. And then it came again. Not loud this time. Not wracking sobs like before. Just a quiet, broken sound. A whimper, almost.

Because in the hush of the water, memories came rushing in—uninvited, unstoppable. Her 𝘕𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘨’s voice, soft and warm, calling her name like a lullaby. The gentle way she used to pat her hand, always whispering, “𝘈𝘯𝘢𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘬, 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘢.”

The scent of her skin. The way she smiled even when her body had long begun to fail. Gone now. And then Harvey. His laughter echoing down the university halls. The way he used to tease her for walking too fast. The secret glances they used to share across campus, the way he used to say her name—like it was his favorite word. Gone, too. Clarissa slid down the tiled wall, sitting under the stream with her knees pulled to her chest, water cascading around her like rain from a place she couldn’t reach.

She didn’t cry hard. She just… cried. For her 𝘕𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘨. For Harvey. For herself. For all the versions of love that ended too soon.

The water hid her tears now, and that felt like a kindness. She stayed there a long while, until her skin wrinkled and her breath finally began to steady. Until there was nothing left to cry—just silence, and the soft whisper of water falling around her. When the water finally turned lukewarm, Clarissa slowly reached up and shut off the tap. The silence that followed was sharp.

She stepped out of the shower, her body heavy, her limbs moving as if underwater. She wrapped herself in a towel, not out of comfort, but necessity. Everything felt muted—like the world had lost its edges.

In front of the fogged mirror, she gently patted her face dry, then sat on the small wooden stool and began to dry her hair with slow, methodical strokes. The towel moved through her strands rhythmically, as though muscle memory had taken over. Her eyes stared forward, unfocused. She didn’t know what time it was.

Back in the bedroom, the air was cool and dim. She pulled on a loose shirt and slipped beneath the thin covers of the bed, the sheets cool against her skin. The mattress dipped softly under her weight, but offered no comfort. Clarissa lay still, staring at the ceiling.

The room was quiet. The storm had passed. But grief… grief still sat with her. Like a presence just beyond reach—no longer loud, no longer crashing, but there.

Heavy. Dense. Inescapable.

She felt it rise again, from the chest outward. That familiar ache. But this time, no tears came.

She blinked.

Nothing. Her body was done. Hollowed out from everything she had let go of. She had cried for them—𝘕𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘨, Harvey, and herself—until there was nothing left to spill. Yet somehow, the grief had only deepened. It had changed form—less a wave, more a weight. A quiet pressure that settled in her bones.

She turned on her side, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Not to sleep. Just to rest in the darkness.

The memories still flickered behind her eyelids—her grandmother’s voice, Harvey’s laugh, the final Zoom call—but she let them pass, one by one. Like distant echoes. And in that silence, where grief no longer needed to be spoken, Clarissa lay still.

Not healed. Not free. Just… emptied.

She didn’t know how long she had been lying there—minutes, maybe hours. Time felt suspended, like the world had been paused just for her to breathe in the darkness. Then came a soft knock.

𝘛𝘢𝘱. 𝘛𝘢𝘱.

“Clarissa,” a voice called gently from behind the door.

Her father’s voice.

Calm, deep, and rare in its tenderness. She didn’t respond—didn’t need to. A moment later, the door creaked open, and he stepped inside. He stood there for a few seconds, unsure, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Clarissa hadn’t turned to look, but she knew he was watching her, reading her silence. “May I come in?” he asked softly. Still, she said nothing. She didn’t have the energy. But she gave a small nod, barely visible beneath the blanket.

He took it as enough. Her father walked slowly to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge. For a moment, he said nothing. Just watched her. Observed her small, still form curled beneath the covers, hair still damp, face pale with exhaustion.

He hadn’t seen her like this in years. Maybe never.

Clarissa didn’t move. But something in her chest tightened when she felt the mattress shift with his weight. He was close now, a comforting presence she hadn’t realized she needed so badly. Then, without a word, he reached out and pulled her gently into his arms. She didn’t resist. In fact, the moment his arms wrapped around her, something inside her loosened—something old and small and quiet. Like the part of her that still needed to be a daughter.

Her head rested against his chest. His shirt smelled faintly of sandalwood and old paper. Familiar. Safe. He held her without asking what was wrong. He didn’t need to. He knew. And that simple act—his hug, his warmth, the silence he kept—was everything.

“I heard you in a Zoom call,” he said quietly after a long pause. “And afterward, I just… I felt like I should check in.”

Clarissa closed her eyes. Still no tears. But her hand, resting on his arm, gripped just a little tighter.

“It’s okay, 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘨,” he murmured, rubbing her back in slow, gentle circles. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Her breath hitched—but again, no sobs came. Only the quiet thud of her heart, the heat of his embrace, the rare comfort of being cared for not as a leader, not as a professional, but simply as his daughter.

“I miss her,” she whispered hoarsely. “And him.” “I know,” he said. “I miss her too.”

And he didn’t mention Harvey. He didn’t need to.

Her father had always been perceptive, even if silent. He knew how much Harvey had meant to her— and he respected the grief without naming it. They stayed like that for a long while—no advice, no fixing. Just a father holding his daughter in the aftermath of everything she had lost. Eventually, his hand stilled.

“Try to rest, Flo. Tomorrow will come. And you’ll be ready.”

She didn’t answer. But she let herself stay in his arms a little longer. And when he finally tucked the blanket gently over her and stood to leave, something in the room had shifted.

Not the pain. That was still there. But for the first time in a long time… she felt held.

Arya closed the bedroom door softly behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob, as if holding onto it could somehow hold him together too. The house was silent. Everyone else maybe had gone to bed. But within him, the silence only amplified the noise—memories, regrets, emotions he had tried so hard to keep buried.

He turned and walked slowly down the hall to his study. The room smelled of old books and the faint traces of the incense they had lit during the ceremonies. His mother’s photo still rested on the table by the window, framed in white cloth, surrounded by faded marigold petals from earlier that morning. He sat down in the chair across from it, rested his elbows on his knees, and let his head fall into his hands.

At first, he simply breathed—long, shaky breaths, as if trying to swallow everything he was feeling. But it was no use. His shoulders began to tremble. And then Arya cried. Not loudly. Not messily. But in a deep, quiet way that came from the heart of a man who had kept everything inside for too long.

He cried for his mother—his 𝘐𝘣𝘶, the woman who raised him with strength and wisdom, who had guided the family through decades of storms, and who had slipped away far too suddenly.

He cried for the hole her absence had left behind. And then… he cried for his daughter. He had seen the look in Clarissa’s eyes tonight. Not just sadness, but the kind of pain that made a father feel helpless. She had broken down in ways he hadn’t expected—ways he couldn’t fix.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, he had said to her. But the truth was, he didn’t know how else to be, either. “I should’ve protected her better,” he whispered to no one. “I should’ve known.”

His voice cracked. He thought of Harvey. The man he had been unsure of. The relationship he hadn’t fully blessed, not because he disliked him, but because he had been cautious. Cautious for Clarissa. Cautious in the way fathers often are when their daughters fall in love too young, too fast, too deeply. But he had seen it. The way she looked at Harvey. And now he’d seen what losing him had done to her.

“I didn’t understand,” Arya choked. “And now it’s too late.”

He wiped his face with one hand, his fingers trembling. His gaze drifted toward the photo of his mother again. He remembered her words, only days before she passed—when her voice had already grown faint but her eyes were sharp with clarity.

“𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘢𝘯 𝘍𝘭𝘰 𝘫𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘪. 𝘋𝘪𝘢 𝘬𝘶𝘢𝘵, 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘶𝘵. 𝘒𝘢𝘮𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘩𝘶, 𝘈𝘳𝘺𝘢, 𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘩 𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘶—𝘣𝘶𝘬𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪 𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘩, 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘪 𝘴𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪 𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘩.”

He had nodded at the time. He hadn’t understood the urgency. He thought he had more time. Now, sitting here with the weight of loss pressing on his chest, he understood. Clarissa had lost her love, her peace, her place. And maybe… he had played a part in that, unintentionally.

His mother had seen what he didn’t. A tear slid down his cheek, and he bowed his head again. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I’ll be there for her.”

Outside, the night deepened. The rituals were over, the condolences had faded. But grief lived on—quiet, stubborn, real. And in the quiet corners of a dimly lit study, a father mourned not just the mother he had lost… but the distance he had allowed to grow between himself and the daughter he still had time to hold onto. Arya sat hunched forward in the dimly lit study, his hands clasped tightly, as though holding them together could keep his heart from falling apart.

His breathing was shallow. His throat ached from holding back sobs that had nowhere else to go.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥, he thought, the words cutting through the fog like a blade. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘵.

The weight of that truth crashed over him like a tide.

He had known Clarissa was strong. Too strong, maybe. The kind of strength that was built not from choice, but from necessity. From growing up in a home that looked stable from the outside—but was, so often, hollowed out by distance, by silence, by pressure.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥, he thought bitterly. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐—

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Arya had been busy building the family’s legacy, taking care of the business, new family, navigating responsibilities and tradition. But in doing so, he had missed the most urgent thing of all: being present. Not just physically. But emotionally. Fully. With his daughter.

He thought of her now—not as the capable, intelligent young woman others praised, but as the little girl who used to wait by the door for him to come home. The one who would crawl into her late mother’s lap when the nights grew too loud. The one who had grown up learning how to endure instead of how to ask for help.

And later… the young woman who learned how to keep smiling while slowly falling apart. He buried his face in his hands. “I wasn’t there,” he whispered. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t see.”

The guilt swelled in his chest, sharp and unforgiving.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦—𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦—𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬?

Instead, she had taught herself to survive.

To become independent. To achieve, to lead, to take care of others—because no one had ever stopped to teach her how to be taken care of. And now, in her adulthood, she was drowning silently. Her resilience was just armor. And her grief—compounded by loss, heartbreak, and unspoken pain—had nearly claimed her life. More than once.

Arya shook his head, blinking rapidly as tears spilled freely again.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘺, he realized. 𝘖𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘐𝘣𝘶. This was about years. Years of absence masked as provision. Years of pride mistaken for guidance. Years of not asking, not listening—because he assumed she was “fine.”

Because she made it look easy.

He could still hear his mother’s voice echoing from her final days: “𝘋𝘪𝘢 𝘬𝘶𝘢𝘵, 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘶𝘵…”

Strong, but soft-hearted. And he had hardened her. Without meaning to. By not being the safe place she needed. Now she suffered alone. Cried alone. Almost died alone. And he—her father—was only now realizing just how deep the wounds had run.

He stood, suddenly unable to sit still anymore. The room felt too tight, the air too thick. He paced once, then stopped at the framed photo of his mother. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I failed her. I thought I was protecting her by making her strong. But I was just… making her feel alone.”

He touched the frame gently, as if asking for forgiveness from beyond the veil. Then he let his hand fall back to his side, clenched. “I won’t let her drown again. Not this time.”

Because no matter how independent she had become, she was still his daughter. And it wasn’t too late—yet. At least, for him.

Arya stood in the middle of his study, still and shaken, as layers of truth began peeling away in his mind like old paint. He had spent the last few years convincing himself he was doing his best. Providing. Guiding. Fulfilling his duty as a father. But now, in the silence left behind by his mother and the hollow grief he’d seen in Clarissa’s eyes, the lies he had told himself started to unravel. He thought about his second wife—Clarissa’s stepmother.

Their marriage had been… pretty well. Practical. A union born out of necessity after his first wife’s passing, when his world had fallen into chaos and he had convinced himself that what the family needed most was structure and more love for his kids. She brought all of those things. On the surface. But never warmth. Never understanding. And Clarissa had felt it from the beginning.

He remembered the quiet tension in the house after they married. The way Kirana had begun spending more time away from home. The way his two sons grew cold, indifferent, and eventually distant. And Clarissa—barely a kid—had simply shut down. Quietly. Elegantly. Without complaint. As if folding herself inward was the only way she could survive.

He hadn’t asked then. Hadn’t questioned the distance, because silence was easier than confronting the truth. But now, he saw it.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘗𝘩𝘋. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦.

To escape the suffocating weight of a house that no longer felt like home. To avoid the emptiness of dinners where no one spoke to her like she mattered. To find a version of herself that wasn’t constantly being ignored, misunderstood, or dismissed.

“She fled,” he said aloud, voice rough. “And I let her.”

Even when she excelled, when she shone with everything she accomplished in South Korea—degrees, recognition, research—he had clapped with pride, but never stopped to ask: Why?

He had mistaken her success for healing. Her independence for peace. But now he understood. Clarissa’s self-sufficiency wasn’t a triumph. It was a scar. A survival mechanism she had built because she had to parent herself. And all the while, he had stood beside a woman who never saw Clarissa—and worse, he had allowed it. Brushed off the tension. Minimized her discomfort. Called it “𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦” or “𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵” rather than what it truly was: a house divided.

He thought of Kirana, who barely asked or visited Clarissa. Never, perhaps. Of his sons, who responded to his messages with flat, formal tones. Of the family he thought he was holding together—when really, he’d been letting it fall apart piece by piece.

And now Clarissa had come home only to be shattered again. Losing Harvey. Losing her 𝘕𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘨. And nearly losing herself.

He clenched his fists, grief laced with shame. “I’ve failed all of you,” he whispered to the dark. He looked once more at the photo of his mother and gave a faint, broken smile. “I hear you, Ibu. I hear you now.”

And for the first time in years, Arya made a promise—not as the head of the family, not as a director, not as a man desperate to preserve legacy. But as a father.

“I’m going to bring them home. Not to this house. To me. To us.”

Arya stepped out of the study and walked quietly down the dim hallway. He paused at Clarissa’s door again, easing it open just enough to slip inside.

The room was quiet, the soft rhythm of her breathing the only sound. She was already asleep, curled on her side beneath the covers. Her face was relaxed, but her body still seemed tense—like someone who had cried herself into exhaustion rather than peace. He crossed the room, switched off the bedside lamp, and gently tucked the blanket around her shoulders. For a moment, he simply stood there, watching her sleep, feeling the sharp sting of all the years he had missed her pain.

Just then, the door creaked open behind him. Kirana stepped in, her arms loosely crossed over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’ve been in here for a while,” she said quietly, eyeing both him and the sleeping figure in the bed. “I was wondering where you went.”

Arya turned to her with a calm but guarded look. “She’s resting. Please don’t wake her.”

“I’m not waking her,” Kirana replied, stepping slightly into the room. “I just wanted to see—”

“No,” Arya interrupted firmly, walking toward her. His hand gently but unmistakably guided her back into the hallway. “Let her have her space.”

Kirana’s brows knit together, irritation flickering behind her composed expression. “Arya, you’ve been hovering over her for days. She’s an adult, not a child.”

He held her gaze. “She may be grown, but she’s hurting. She’s grieving. And I should’ve been here for her long before now.”

Kirana scoffed under her breath—barely audible, but pointed. “You weren’t this concerned before.”

“I am now,” he said flatly. The silence between them thickened. Something unspoken passed in Kirana’s eyes—resentment, perhaps, or jealousy at the bond being rekindled between Arya and his daughter. It was clear she didn’t approve of his sudden shift—of the closeness forming again between father and child, from which she stood apart.

“I’ll stay with her tonight,” Arya added, his voice cool but resolute.

“You should get some rest.” She opened her mouth as if to protest, but then closed it again, lips tightening. Without another word, she turned and walked off down the hallway. Arya waited until her footsteps faded, then quietly pulled the door mostly closed, leaving only a sliver of light. He returned to the chair just outside the room, sat down, and leaned forward—elbows on knees, hands clasped. He wasn’t doing this for appearances. He wasn’t doing it to be praised or forgiven.

He was doing it because he had finally remembered what it meant to be a father. And as the house settled into silence, Arya remained—no longer lost in titles or distance, but grounded by love and remorse. Kirana’s coldness lingered like a draft in the air, but he no longer moved for her approval. Tonight, he stayed not for duty—but for Clarissa. This was the first step in mending what had once been broken beyond words.

END,

[siltrace]

The Afternoon Snack

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall glass panels of the hallway, casting long lines of amber light across the polished floor. The campus had begun to quiet—most students already gone, the usual buzz dialed down to a hush.

Clarissa’s heels clicked softly as she made her way through the corridor, her tablet cradled under one arm. She moved with the grace of someone accustomed to navigating space without drawing attention—until her eyes caught the figure standing outside her office door.

Winston Langford.

He was leaning casually against the wall, dressed in a navy shirt with the sleeves rolled just past his elbows. In one hand, he held up a canvas tote bag like a silent flag of peace. Inside, she could see a few canned drinks, neatly packed snacks, and something that looked suspiciously like her favorite seaweed crisps.

She raised an eyebrow as she approached. “Did you need something?”

Winston straightened, the corners of his mouth lifting into a soft, almost sheepish smile.

“Not really. I just figured you hadn’t eaten.”

Clarissa paused in front of him, her hand halfway to the door panel. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice gave nothing away. “Is that a bribe or a guilt trip?”

He chuckled quietly. “Neither. Consider it… project sustenance.”

“You realize you didn’t have to wait by my door with snacks like some wandering vending machine,” she said, one brow arching. “I know,” he replied, still holding the tote between them. “But I was nearby, and I thought… maybe you’d take five minutes. Not as the rector. Not as a lecturer. Just Clarissa.” The sound of her name in his voice made her blink once—slow and measured.

Not many used her name that way. Not gently. Not like it was something they wanted to know, not something they assumed they already understood.

After a beat, she unlocked the door behind her and looked over her shoulder.

“Well,” she said, holding the door open just slightly, “I don’t have any vending machine tokens. But I suppose I can spare five minutes.” Winston stepped inside behind her, careful not to crowd her space. And though the room remained filled only with the crinkle of the snack bag opening and the faint hum of her desktop monitor, the air between them held something new—

Not tension exactly. But the awareness of being noticed.

Really noticed.

“You can sit. I can prepare this for you,” Winston said gently, already walking toward the small side table in her office, laying out the drinks and snacks with a care that felt oddly intimate. Clarissa lingered by the door, her brows slightly furrowed.

“This is very out of nowhere, Dr. Langford.”

“I know,” he replied, glancing at her over his shoulder, his expression somewhere between earnest and tentative. “But can’t I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence—not out of hesitation, but because the weight of the moment didn’t seem to need it. His voice trailed into something softer, unspoken. Clarissa didn’t respond right away. She stood there, uncertain, her hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door as if deciding whether to step into the space or stay at its threshold. Her eyes moved across the table, then to Winston’s quiet figure—how calmly he unpacked the contents of the tote without expecting anything in return.

She wasn't used to this. Not gestures without agendas. Not silence without discomfort.

Finally, with a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, she gave a single, small nod. Winston didn’t smile, didn’t push further. He just opened a canned tea and set it in front of the chair across from him. Clarissa stepped in, letting the door close behind her with a soft click.

The room was quiet—only the soft clatter of plastic packaging and the muted hum of the air conditioning. As she sat, Clarissa cast him a sidelong glance, voice lower now. “You’re not what I expected.”

Winston looked up at her, his expression unreadable, but something in his eyes warmed. “Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said, deadpan—but her lips curved, just slightly.

And in that sliver of a smile, in that quietly shared space, something settled between them. Fragile, unspoken, but real. Not the beginning of something loud. But the continuation of something inevitable.

Then he cleared his throat softly. “Did you happen to check your email this morning?” Clarissa shook her head slightly. “I haven’t. I had back-to-back meetings since 8.”

“You might want to,” he said, careful not to sound too eager. “The Dean of Business sent us both a proposal. A joint project between our departments.” Her brows drew together. “He sent something to me?” Winston nodded.

“To both of us. It’s a cross-faculty initiative—design meets business. The idea is to build a curriculum prototype around ethical business practices through design thinking. Community-based, long-term. You’d be co-leading.”

Clarissa was quiet for a long beat. She took a slow sip of tea, her gaze distant. “And you’ve already said yes.”

“I did,” he admitted. “It felt… right. And honestly, I couldn’t think of anyone better to work with.”

Her eyes flicked to him, guarded. “You barely know me.”

“True,” he said. “But I’ve seen the way you handle a room, and I’ve read your published design framework.

There’s clarity in your work. Purpose. And—if I’m being honest—something about it makes me want to try harder at mine.” A flicker of something crossed her face—surprise, maybe even warmth—but it passed quickly.

She looked down at her lap. “I don’t usually work with people outside my department,” she said, voice low. “Less room for friction that way.”

“I figured,” Winston said. “But sometimes friction generates light.” She looked at him again, really looked at him, and this time she didn’t immediately push the thought away. “You really want to do this?”

“I do,” he said quietly. “But only if you’re in it, too. Fully.” Clarissa leaned back slightly in her chair, arms folding. “This won’t be easy. There will be scrutiny. Pressure from both faculties. And I don’t like… small talk disguised as collaboration.”

“I don’t either,” he replied. “And I’m not here to play at partnerships.”

They sat in silence again, but this time it was different—less hesitant, more charged. Then Clarissa leaned forward, fingers curling around the tea can. “Fine. I’ll look at the proposal tonight.”

Winston’s smile softened. “That’s all I was hoping for.”

She glanced at him.

“Dr. Langford?”

He looked at her.

“I don’t do well with people who get flustered when things get complicated.”

He chuckled gently. “Good. I don’t do well with things that stay simple.” The sun had started to dip lower outside the window, casting golden light across the floor. And in that small room—two minds, two lives—began to shift onto a shared track neither of them had planned for. Clarissa reached for the choco pie and unwrapped it carefully.

“Thank you… for this,” she said, glancing at him with a quiet sincerity before taking a small bite. The wrapper crackled faintly between her fingers.

Winston watched her, his elbow resting on the table, chin slightly tilted. Something about the way she chewed in silence—composed, deliberate—struck him as oddly endearing. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched her, adoringly, his gaze softening.

She caught the look out of the corner of her eye and raised an eyebrow. “Did you bring all this to bribe me into accepting the project?”

He chuckled, one shoulder lifting lazily. “Maybe.”

Clarissa smirked, not entirely unamused. “You could’ve just emailed.”

“I could’ve,” he said. “But you seem like the type to ignore emails when your plate’s already full.” She didn’t deny it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair slightly, still holding the half-eaten choco pie. “So what—are you one of those lecturers who stalk their colleagues to force collaborations?”

“Only the elusive ones,” he replied with a grin. There was a flicker of something unspoken in her smile—something close to warmth, but still safely guarded. Winston shifted slightly in his seat, his voice a touch more casual now.

“I’ve never seen you in the canteen. Do you bring your own food? Or just... avoid all signs of social life entirely?”

Clarissa tilted her head, considering. “I love to cook. Really. I used to do it often back in Seoul. It was my kind of therapy. But here? With the hours, meetings, admin chaos... I rarely get the time.”

Winston gave a small, knowing nod. “So you skip meals. Almost all the time.”

She said nothing—just offered a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s what I thought,” he said gently. “It’s in the way you pause before eating. Like it’s unfamiliar.”

Clarissa looked away, as if something in his observation caught her off guard. She took another bite of the choco pie, slower this time.

Winston leaned back, hands folded in his lap. “You should let someone cook for you.”

She met his gaze again, the expression in her eyes unreadable. “I don’t let people do things for me easily,” she said.

“I didn’t say it had to be easy,” he replied, voice steady. “I just said it might be nice.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. And then she reached for the tea, took a small sip, and said softly, “You’re persistent, Dr. Langford.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, smiling again.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips—brief, but real. It was the kind of laugh that slipped out before she could filter it. Clarissa looked down at the choco pie in her hand, then back at him with a lifted brow. Winston leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“You know,” he began, “my first thought about you—when I bumped into you—was that you were cold. Scary, even. Like most rectors I’ve met.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Was I?”

He tilted his head, smiling now, the edge of his mouth curling with quiet fondness. “No. You’re not. You’re kind. Calm. Just… guarded, maybe. But nothing like I imagined.”

Clarissa let out a breath through her nose, half a sigh, half an exhale of relief. “Good to hear,” she murmured. There was a pause—comfortable, even as it hovered with unsaid things. Then she looked over at him again. “Not home yet? Don’t you have your own business to take care of?”

Winston shrugged, his tone light but honest. “I do. But I’m here with you now.”

Clarissa’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in irritation but curiosity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He met her gaze evenly. “You’re not home yet, either.”

That silenced her for a beat. She looked down, then back at him—and in that look was a flicker of something deeper. Not resistance, not acceptance, but awareness. A soft admission that maybe—just maybe—they both weren’t running from something, but walking toward something new.

Clarissa didn’t respond immediately. She just tucked her hair behind her ear and reached for the tea again, sipping slowly. Winston didn’t push. He simply sat with her, in the silence they shared. And sometimes, that said more than words ever could.

Clarissa took another bite of the choco pie, savoring the taste. As she brought it down, a small smear of chocolate clung to the corner of her lips. Winston’s eyes caught it immediately. Before she could even realize it, Winston reached out gently and brushed the chocolate away with the back of his thumb.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met—his hand lingering near her face longer than necessary. Clarissa blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—thank you,” she said softly, her cheeks coloring faintly.

“I’m sorry,” she added quickly, her voice faltering as a sudden awkwardness settled over her. She froze in place, suddenly self-conscious. Winston smiled warmly, trying to ease the moment.

“You must be tired,” he said gently. “Skipping meals and all… It makes you a bit unfocused. No wonder you’re a little clumsy.”

Clarissa’s eyes dropped, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe you’re right.”

He leaned back in his chair, still watching her with that quiet, attentive look. “You need to eat properly. Can’t have you losing your balance around here.”

The warmth in his tone was soft but insistent, as if caring for her was the most natural thing in the world. Clarissa nodded, feeling a flutter she hadn’t expected, somewhere between embarrassment and something gentler, something maybe a little like hope.

Clarissa tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, still a bit flustered but finding comfort in Winston’s calm presence. The awkwardness slowly melted into something warmer—an unspoken understanding that neither of them had expected to find in this quiet room filled with project notes and half-eaten snacks.

“So,” Winston began, his voice light but sincere, “maybe next time, bring me snacks and I’ll bring you a proper meal. Deal?”

Clarissa’s smile grew a little more genuine this time. “Deal.”

She glanced up, meeting his eyes with a spark of something shy but curious. They leaned back, the air between them softening. For a moment, the pressure of work and university politics slipped away, replaced by the quiet promise of something more— a connection woven from small kindnesses and unexpected moments.

Outside, the campus hummed with life, but in that room, time seemed to pause just for them. Clarissa’s phone buzzed softly on the table, interrupting the growing quiet between them.

She glanced down and saw the caller ID, and a notification—it was a colleague from her design studio. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” she said, reaching for her phone. “They need me at the studio for an unexpected meeting.”

Winston stood up, offering a small smile as he stepped back. “Of course. You should go.”

Clarissa nodded, gathering her things quickly. “Thank you, Dr. Langford. And thanks again for the snacks—and for staying with me today.”

Winston chuckled lightly. “Anytime, Dr. Clarissa. I’ll be here, waiting to hear your thoughts on the proposal.” She smiled warmly, slipping her phone back into her bag. “I’ll let you know my decision first thing tomorrow morning.”

With a polite nod, Clarissa turned and walked away, her steps purposeful but light. Winston watched her go, the air still charged with unspoken possibilities. Even after she was gone, the room seemed fuller—like the beginning of something neither of them quite expected.

Left alone in the quiet room, Winston’s eyes slowly wandered around the minimalist, tidy space. Everything felt carefully arranged—clean lines, uncluttered surfaces—just like the woman who had just left. His gaze fell on the desk, where a framed photo caught his attention. It was Clarissa, smiling beside a man he assumed was Harvey. The warmth in their expressions was unmistakable, a rare glimpse of the life she kept mostly hidden. Surrounding that photo were others—plaques, certificates, snapshots of Clarissa’s achievements and milestones.

Almost none of them featured family.

Then, tucked among the accolades, Winston noticed a smaller, older picture—Clarissa during her bachelor days, youthful and radiant, a softer version of the composed lecturer he had come to know.

He muttered softly to himself, admiration and curiosity mingling in his voice. “She’s... something else.”

But beneath that polished exterior, Winston couldn’t help but wonder about the depth of her heartbreak. How much of herself did she keep locked away? How was she really holding up behind that refined, graceful look? A quiet longing settled in his chest—a desire to understand her, not just as the brilliant lecturer or the daughter of a prestigious family, but as the woman with a story he was only beginning to glimpse.

END.