CHAPTER 67: CHAPTER 67

Morning at Starfall Estate dawned gentle, with warm sun pouring through the eastern windows and spilling across the parquet floors.

The rhythm of festival excitement from the previous night had faded; in its place, a hush, as if the world was offering Ethan and his parents a day of peace—a reward earned and deeply needed.

The house felt softer, quieter. Anthony had left his study door open, exposing a rare sight: he was reading, feet curled up, spectacles perched on his nose, mug of spiced tea steaming.

Aurora, humming under her breath, moved from room to room, gathering faint traces of celebration—folded lantern wrappers, stray sweets, and a scattering of flower petals that clung to her slippers.

Ethan lingered in bed, listening to muffled voices, ordinary and lulling. For once, he allowed himself the luxury of waking slow.

He traced patterns on the blanket, letting memory drift: rainy mornings as a child, Aurora’s stories, Anthony’s jovial scolding when Ethan left muddy footprints on the stairs. The comfort of such recollection settled deep into his chest.

He rose, washed, dressed—simple tunic and trousers, chosen for quiet comfort rather than display.

Downstairs, the house was touched with sunlight, the old marble in the foyer glowing, the kitchen already alive with the soft clatter of Aurora preparing breakfast.

She noticed him instantly, smile blooming gentle and easy. "Good morning, darling. Hungry?"

Ethan nodded. "Starving."

She set a bowl of rice porridge before him, sweetened with honey. "Your favorite," she said quietly.

"You haven’t asked for it in ages."

He shrugged, settling at the table as she poured him tea. "I forgot how much I missed it."

Anthony came in next, still clutching his book, glasses left behind. He ruffled Ethan’s hair and grinned.

"Sleep at last! You haven’t stolen this from the kitchen since you were ten."

"I was smaller then," Ethan replied, feigning injury as his father swatted his shoulder.

"I couldn’t reach the top shelf. I doubt I could now, if you find out where you hid all the lamp oil."

Anthony burst out laughing, a rich, booming sound.

"Lamp oil is dangerous and belongs to me. The porridge, you may steal at will."

Breakfast felt like home—familiar, easy, safe.

Aurora pressed extra plums into Ethan’s bowl, watching him eat with a gaze so soft it made him want to never leave the table. Anthony, sipping tea, watched his wife and son with a pride that seemed to settle like a shield over the whole kitchen.

While they ate, Ethan shared the little nothingness of ordinary life—how Eyra nearly started a food fight at dinner, how Lysander tried (and failed) to win a game of riddle cards against the smallest cousin. Aurora giggled.

"I saw him sneak away with a basket of sweets to bribe the judges."

Anthony leaned in conspiratorially.

"He comes by it honestly. His uncle once traded a whole cake for the family trophy and never admitted it."

After breakfast, Aurora led Ethan to the garden, arms linked. The day was breezy, golden; the peach trees shed blossoms that wove little rivers of color across the grass. She slowed, letting her son take in the scent, the quiet—the world made gentle.

"Your father planned the flowerbeds for you," Aurora said, stopping beneath a flowering willow.

"Every spring since you were small, he wanted them to be your home away from everything. Do you remember running through them in the rain?"

Ethan smiled, memory surfacing.

"I do. I ruined three pairs of shoes before the mud finally claimed the last one."

Aurora laughed, her voice like bells.

"You hated wet socks, but you loved chasing storms. I think I spent half my time drying you and Lysander off at the old hearth."

Ethan let the moment stay, savoring it. "You must’ve worried sometimes. About me. I was always in trouble."

Aurora’s smile turned thoughtful.

"I worried every day, Ethan. Parents always do, especially mothers. But your trouble was never trouble for us—just life. You made this estate a happy place, with your wild running and your endless questions. I think you taught me more than I taught you."

They sat beneath the willow for a time, watching the wind carry blossoms. Aurora reached for Ethan’s hand and squeezed it, a small comfort given freely.

"You’ve grown so much," she said quietly.

"I miss the little boy who’d help me pick apples or beg for stories about the wandering cranes."

"I’m still here, Ma," Ethan whispered, voice faint.

"Just a little older. A little more battered."

"I see you," she replied, touching his face.

"No matter how much you change, Ethan, I see you. You are ours, and you always will be."

A hush lingered between them, but it was a gentle one. Ethan leaned his head on her shoulder, comforted by the sense that, even with all his burdens, this was the place he belonged.

They went inside as the day warmed. Anthony appeared in the sitting room, old chess set prepared.

He and Ethan played for an hour, trading jokes and advice as Aurora stitched beside them.

The conversation ranged from the merits of simple defensive plays to Anthony’s favorite memories of Ethan’s childhood—how Ethan once lost a whole game by sacrificing his queen to "see what would happen."

"I thought being bold was always better," Ethan explained.

Anthony laughed.

"Boldness matters, son. But wisdom—learning when not to risk—is the mark of a great leader. You surprised me, even then."

Ethan lost the match, as always—Anthony’s skill legendary in the family. Aurora served lemon pastries and gently teased Anthony for his pride.

Ethan marveled at the easy banter between them, the affection flowing as freely as warm spring rain.

Later, Anthony led Ethan to the upstairs library. Shelves of old tomes, weathered but lovingly repaired, lined the walls. He pulled a book free, pages crinkled with age. "This was your favorite," Anthony said, handing it to Ethan.

"You memorized the stories so well, you corrected me when I read them wrong."

Ethan turned the book over. It was a simple fable collection, filled with tales of small heroes—a fox outsmarting a hungry wolf, a blind baker who won a contest with a cake no one understood but everyone loved.

"I remember the story of the fisherman who became king by caring for the poorest in his village," Ethan said softly.

"I think you liked it because he listened before he spoke," Anthony replied.

"You’ve always been curious, son, but never cruel. Even as a boy, you wanted to help the small things, the lost birds, the frightened puppies, the children who needed a friend."

Ethan closed his eyes, the comfort of those words anchoring him. "I wish I could’ve stayed simple—just a helper, a listener."

Anthony’s hand landed gently on Ethan’s shoulder.

"You are still that boy, Ethan. I see you every day, sometimes underneath all the worries and all the changes. And yes, I see the weight you carry—we do, your mother and I."

Ethan felt tears prick his eyes, but he blinked them away. "I’m proud to be your son," he whispered.

Anthony drew him into a rough hug, as he had when Ethan was small and frightened of lightning.

"We are proud of you every day, Ethan. Not because you win or lose. Not even because you are brave. We are proud because you are kind."

The day edged into afternoon. Ethan sat with Aurora, helping her sort a box of old festival keepsakes—little paper dragons from years past, faded lantern strings, a bit of honey cake wrapped in silk.

She shared stories he hadn’t heard: her own childhood, the times she’d nearly dissolved the estate with laughter or tears. She explained how she learned to cook simple meals when she was newly married, how she worried about being good enough.

"I’ve never felt strong," Aurora admitted,

"but somehow, being a mother made me brave."

Ethan touched her hand. "You taught me what bravery looks like."

They spoke about his childhood, trading favorite memories—his first steps in the orchard, the time he stayed up all night baking bread with Aurora, the summer when he was sick and Anthony read him stories for days.

Aurora recounted how Ethan used to bring lost animals home—stray kittens, sparrows with injured wings.

"You always wanted to fix the broken things," she said.

"Sometimes," Ethan replied, "I still do."

She laughed gently, "We all do, love. The world isn’t an easy place, but it gives us moments like this. Moments to remember who we are, together."

Anthony entered, balancing a tray of crisp apples and spiced tea. "Your mother is wise. She’s taught me more about living than any book. But you—" He looked at Ethan, eyes deep with affection.

"You taught me to stop and see the world through different eyes."

Ethan listened, heart full of gratitude.

He recounted the story of his dreams, his nerves, his hopes. Aurora’s eyes shone with pride, and Anthony nodded, as if all their efforts culminated in that day.

"I dream of a future where you find happiness," Aurora said, squeezing Ethan’s hand. "Where all your wishes come true—and you never lose sight of the home and love that waits for you."

Ethan closed his eyes, letting the simple truth anchor him. "My greatest wish," he whispered, "is to always have days like this. Not power, not glory. Just this—family, ordinary joys, and peace."

Anthony and Aurora said nothing for a long span. Their quiet held all the love that words could give.

Later, as dusk approached, Ethan joined his parents in the old garden once more. Fireflies bobbed in the grass.

Anthony told a funny story about the time he tried to fix a broken wagon, only to have it collapse into a muddy puddle.

Aurora recounted a day when she and Ethan made lanterns so poorly that the servants placed bets on which would burn out first.

Ethan’s laughter blended with theirs, natural and unforced. Together, the three walked the garden paths, not speaking of burdens, just living in the moment of life.

Night deepened. They drank warm tea together in the old sitting room. Aurora drew Ethan close, brushing his hair from his forehead. Anthony pressed his hand to Ethan’s back—a comfort felt more than seen.

No plans were made, no battles discussed, no worries lingered. In that quiet, Ethan found the peace he had always sought amid chaos:

the knowledge that, no matter where the world took him, the true heart of Drake-Starfall Estate would always beat here—with his parents, their love, their small gestures, their gentle faith in him.

For one precious day, Ethan lived in the grace of normalcy, pulled close by the simple miracle of family. In all the world, nothing could be more extraordinary than this.