Timeless

Chapter Three

The morning sun crept through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns of light across the wooden floors of the manor, but the warmth did little to chase away the chill that clung to the air. The house was vast, a relic of grandeur that had outlived its purpose, its beauty now cold and sterile, like a marble statue that commands admiration but offers no comfort. The high ceilings loomed overhead, oppressive in their silence, while the marble floors, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflected the emptiness that echoed through every hollow room. Portraits lined the walls, stern-faced ancestors immortalized in oil and canvas, their eyes following me wherever I moved, as if to remind me of the weight of history that rested on my shoulders.

I sat by the window, my hands wrapped around a porcelain teacup, though I had long since stopped noticing the chill of the tea that had gone cold in my grasp. My gaze was fixed on the garden below, where Timothy played among the flowers, his small figure a splash of color in an otherwise muted world. He was so young, perhaps five or six, with dark hair that tumbled into his eyes, eyes that held a depth far beyond his years. He was alone, as he often was, his only companions the bees that buzzed lazily between the blooms and the occasional butterfly that flitted past. The boy fascinated me, though I couldn't quite put my finger on why. There was something in the way he moved, the way he talked to himself in soft whispers as he explored the garden, that stirred a memory deep within me—a memory of someone I had known long ago, in a time that felt like another lifetime.

As I watched him, a familiar ache settled in my chest, a dull, persistent throb that had become as much a part of me as the air I breathed. It was the ache of loss, of time stretching out before me with no end in sight, of watching life unfold in endless cycles while I remained unchanged, untouched by the passage of years. I had seen so many children grow up, so many lives begin and end, and yet here I was, a silent witness to the world's relentless march forward, carrying the weight of memories that never faded, never dulled with time. I wondered if Timothy felt it too—the burden of being out of step with the world, of knowing too much, too soon.

He knelt by the flowerbed, his small hands cradling something I couldn't see from where I sat. Curiosity stirred within me, pulling me from the depths of my thoughts. I set the teacup down on the windowsill, the clink of porcelain against wood barely registering in my mind, and rose from my seat. Moving with the grace of someone who had walked this earth for far longer than most could comprehend, I made my way down to the garden, the cold air of the manor clinging to me like a second skin.

The warmth of the sun was a welcome contrast as I stepped outside, the scent of roses and freshly turned earth filling my lungs with each breath. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the oak trees that lined the garden's edge, their branches swaying like old friends waving in greeting. My footsteps were soft on the gravel path, the sound almost lost in the symphony of nature that surrounded me—the chirping of birds, the hum of bees, the rustle of leaves. I approached Timothy slowly, not wanting to startle him, though I doubted anything could truly shake the calm that seemed to radiate from him.

"Timothy," I called softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. He looked up at me, his dark eyes wide and curious, his small hands still cradling whatever it was he had found in the flowerbed. As I drew closer, I saw that he was holding a tiny bird, its wings fluttering weakly in his grasp, as if trying to escape but lacking the strength to do so.

"I found him on the ground," Timothy said, his voice trembling with the effort to hold back tears. "He's hurt."

I knelt beside him, my gaze shifting from the boy to the bird in his hands. It was a sparrow, its brown feathers ruffled and dirty, one wing bent at an awkward angle. I could see the life draining from its tiny body, the way its movements were growing weaker with each passing second. A familiar sorrow welled up within me, mingling with the memories of countless other lives I had watched slip away, powerless to stop it.