James stood by the window, phone in hand, brows furrowed as the screen blinked silently.
"No answer again," he muttered.
Elina, sitting on the edge of their chaise lounge, looked up. "Did you try the number we had traced last week?"
"I tried them all. His phone's still off. The only thing we know is he left from the mansion and never came back."
A beat of silence.
"We should go," James said at last.
But Elina hesitated. Her voice was quieter than usual, tinged with something uncertain. "Not yet. Let's try one more time. I… I don't want to scare him off."
Outside the door, Alisha stood frozen. She had overheard everything—every word about Ian. Her first instinct had been to rush into the room and demand they leave immediately to bring him back. But something in Elina's voice stopped her. For the first time, it wasn't sharp. It was scared.
Alisha stepped away quietly.
The next morning, Leon sat in a grand, glass-domed seminar hall, half-listening to a medical conference he barely remembered signing up for. Doctors spoke about rare blood conditions, breakthrough treatments. None of it stuck—until a man beside him leaned over during a break.
"Excuse me, you're Leon Clifford, right?"
Leon turned. "Yes."
The man extended his hand. "Dr. Aamir. I was Ian's attending specialist a few months back. How's he doing now?"
Leon blinked. "Ian? Oh, he's… he's fine. Left the city for a while. Needed a break."
But something in the doctor's face shifted. His smile dropped, replaced by concern. "Did he not tell you about his condition?"
Leon frowned. "Condition? What are you talking about?"
Dr. Aamir looked at him carefully. "Ian has late-stage leukemia. The prognosis was… not good. Maximum two years, depending on treatment. We discussed options, but he refused aggressive chemotherapy. Said he wanted time, not survival."
The words hit like cold steel.
"What—what are you saying?" Leon whispered.
"I'm saying your brother is dying," Dr. Aamir said gently.
Leon couldn't breathe. The room faded. The world shrank down to one sentence, echoing like thunder.
Ian has blood cancer.
Terminal.
Two years left.
He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the marble floor. Without a word, he rushed out, shoving past stunned guests. The valet barely had time to pull the car around before Leon jumped in.
"Home. Now," he ordered the driver.
The ride was a blur. Rain smeared the windshield, but Leon didn't see it. He sat hunched, fists clenched, haunted by memories: the hallway silences, the ignored birthdays, the time Ian lingered by his door and Leon pretended to be asleep.
He remembered brushing past Ian in the hallway. Ian had opened his mouth—then closed it. Leon had just kept walking.
The guilt surged like floodwater.
He burst into the Clifford estate, bolting up the stairs. Alisha saw him and followed, calling his name. But Leon didn't stop until he reached their parents' room.
The door was slightly ajar. Inside, James and Elina were still talking.
"…Willowmere," James said. "That's the village."
Elina nodded. "It's small, quiet. Maybe he—"
The door slammed open.
Leon stood there, chest heaving. "He's dying."
"What?" Elina asked, rising.
Leon's voice cracked. "Ian. He has blood cancer. Terminal. Two years. Maybe less."
Alisha froze behind him. "What…?"
"He never told us," Leon continued, his voice distant. "He just left. And now I know why."
The room went silent. Heavy. Crushing.
James sat down without speaking. Elina slowly lowered herself beside him. Alisha leaned against the wall, arms wrapped around herself.
No one said a word.
They didn't need to.
The silence said everything.
In Willowmere, rain pattered softly on the porch as Ian watched the children dance in the puddles again. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
I'll miss this… if things get worse.
The thought passed through him like smoke.
Later that evening, as Mira prepared dinner and Noah tended to the fireplace, Ian coughed once—then again. He pressed a hand to his chest and stood, but the cough grew deeper, more violent. He stumbled toward his room.
He barely made it to the door before collapsing to his knees.
His hand stretched toward his travel bag, where his emergency meds were kept—but his vision blurred.
Aria's small voice broke the stillness. "Mama! Ian's coughing!"
Mira dropped the ladle and ran, Noah just behind her.
When they opened the door, they saw Ian on the floor, blood at his lips, hand trembling toward his bag.
Noah rushed to hold him upright. "Ian! Hey, stay with me—just breathe—"
Mira yanked open the bag, her fingers shaking. The bottle was there—but empty.
Her face drained of color.
"The medicine's out," she whispered.
Aria and Theo were crying now, clinging to each other at the door.
Mira handed Ian to Noah, grabbed her coat, and bolted out into the rain. "I'm getting help!"
Neighbors responded fast. Within minutes, they were driving to the nearest hospital. Ian lay in the backseat, Noah holding him upright, whispering, "Stay awake. Just hold on."
At the hospital, doctors worked quickly. The meds kicked in, and the coughing eased—barely.
Lying there, listening to the monitors, Ian wondered if this was the moment it all began to unravel. If the joy he'd found was already slipping away.
Back at the Clifford mansion, the rain hadn't stopped.
James finally looked at Elina. "We're going to Willowmere."
Elina nodded, but her hand trembled as she reached for her coat.
"What if he won't let us in?" she whispered.
James looked at her. "Then we'll wait until he does."
Alisha, still shaken, said softly, "He shouldn't have to be alone anymore."
For the first time in years, the Clifford family agreed on something.
They were going to find Ian—not to bring him back, but to ask if it was too late to start over.