The Art of turning heart

22 |

The soft notes of the piano echoed through the hallway as I approached Edward's study. It was unusual, hearing him play unprompted, for it was always I who would beg him to coax music from the keys. But there he was, seated at the piano, his fingers moving with a grace that betrayed none of the weariness I knew had settled into his bones.

When he saw me, his hands stilled, and the music ceased. He rose slowly, his gaze meeting mine, and before I could utter a word, he crossed the room and embraced me. His arms, once strong and steady, felt thinner around me now. My chest tightened, and I felt the sting of tears welling up, threatening to spill over, but I held them back. I could not let him see. I couldn't.

He pulled back, his brow furrowing in concern. "What is it, my love? You seem... troubled."

I forced a weak smile, shaking my head as I wiped at my eyes. "Oh, it's nothing. Just my allergies, I suppose. The flowers outside must be in bloom again."

Edward gave me a small nod, though his expression remained skeptical. He took my hand, his fingers cool against my skin, and led me to the settee by the window. "Come, we must discuss the final preparations for the wedding. Time is slipping away, and I wish for everything to be perfect."

I sat beside him, trying to compose myself, forcing my lips into the semblance of a smile. He began to speak of arrangements—of flowers, and guests, and music—but I could barely focus on his words. My thoughts were elsewhere, swirling with the memories of what I had read at the library, with the weight of the truth that I feared was settling over us.

There was a soft knock at the door, and a maid entered, carrying a tray with tea and a plate of delicate little cakes. She offered them to us, and I accepted one eagerly, grateful for the distraction. But Edward hesitated, his gaze lingering on the tray before politely declining.

I glanced at him, my smile faltering. "You've always had a weakness for these," I teased gently. "Are you certain you won't indulge today?"

He shook his head, offering a faint smile in return. "Not today, my dear. My appetite has been... fickle as of late."

I tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow even to my own ears. As I sipped my tea, I watched him reach for something on his desk—perhaps a letter or a note. His sleeve slipped back slightly, revealing a glimpse of his arm, and what I saw made my breath catch in my throat.

His arms, once so robust and full of life, now seemed so much thinner than I remembered. The sleeves of his jacket, which had always fitted him so well, appeared loose, almost hanging from his frame.

I quickly averted my gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. The sight of it confirmed what I had been trying so desperately to ignore. He was wasting away before my very eyes, and no amount of pretending could hide that fact any longer.

But still, I said nothing. I smiled when he spoke, nodded when he asked my opinion, and tried to push away the terror gnawing at the edges of my mind. For now, I would allow myself to believe his reassurances, if only to keep the fear at bay a little while longer.

As the carriage rattled along the cobbled streets, the weight of everything finally began to crush me. I had held it together in front of him, forced smiles, and swallowed words that wanted to spill forth, but now, as the familiar sight of my home came into view, I could feel the dam inside me breaking.

I barely made it through the front door before the tears started to fall. At first, they were quiet, the kind of tears that slide down your cheeks in silence, but soon enough, the sobs came, wrenching themselves from my chest as though they had been waiting for this moment to be freed.