For Me,There Is Only You |18+|

50. Unearthing The Past

A shiver crept down my spine the moment we stepped into the basement.

The cold hit me like a slap, biting through my thin white tee and sleeping shorts. I crossed my arms, rubbing them briskly, silently cursing myself for not grabbing a sweater.

The air down here felt different—thick and stale, as if the space had been forgotten by time.

The basement was a labyrinth of stone walls, their surfaces cool. The dim light from a few scattered bulbs barely pierced the gloom, leaving most of the space shrouded in shifting shadows.

I followed close behind Ansel, watching my step to avoid the clutter on the floor.

The place was crammed with relics of the past—paintings in frames that looked ready to crumble, fragile vases balanced precariously, and strange objects whose purpose I couldn't even guess.

Many of them were veiled beneath white sheets, their ghostly forms looming in the dim light like forgotten memories.

The smell was unmistakable—a mix of damp stone, old dust, and something earthy.

Every sound seemed amplified here: the soft scuff of my feet, the faint buzz of the bulbs, and Ansel's unhurried footsteps leading the way.

One painting caught my eye—a serene landscape of a blooming meadow bathed in soft, golden sunlight, framed by towering mountains that stood like silent guardians in the distance.

The details were so vivid, so breathtaking, that they stirred a pang of nostalgia deep within me.

I stepped closer, my fingers brushing lightly across the edge of the canvas, feeling the faint texture of the brushstrokes.

The emotion woven into every stroke made it feel alive, almost as if I could step into that meadow and lose myself in its tranquility.

"Do you like that painting, amina?" Ansel's voice was soft, drawing my attention back to him. He had been quietly observing me, his sapphire eyes curious yet patient.

"This..." I whispered, my gaze returning to the painting. "It reminds me of my mother. Her last painting looked so much like this."

Ansel's expression shifted, a flicker of something I couldn't quite place—understanding, perhaps?

He didn't press for details, though the questions were evident on his face. Instead, he said, "You can have it if you want."

"Can I?" I asked, taken aback. "But it looks so valuable. It feels... ancient, like everything else here."

"If you have it, it will only gain more value," Ansel said, his tone low and deliberate.

His words sent my heart racing as I met his unwavering gaze.

Ansel turned slightly, his face illuminated just enough for me to catch the small, knowing smile on his lips.

"And yes, it is ancient," he said, his voice resonant in the stillness. "Most of these things are centuries old—maybe older. They belonged to my maternal grandfather, passed down through his line, from father to son, generation after generation."

"Oh," I murmured, letting the weight of his words sink in.

My gaze wandered, landing on a cracked vase teetering on the edge of a wooden shelf. Its faded patterns hinted at a time when it had been something beautiful, crafted by hands long gone.

"Where are your maternal grandparents?" I asked softly, the question forming before I could stop myself. "Are they...?" I hesitated, unsure how to phrase it delicately.