Chapter 3: The Ghost in the Gallery**
By nightfall, silence engulfed the 20,000-square-foot estate. Clara roamed the west wing, trying to understand the fortress of hostility built by four young children. In the darkened art gallery, she found the answer.
A massive portrait of a breathtaking woman with warm amber eyes hung above the marble fireplace—Eleanor Sterling, their late mother. Beneath the canvas lay a small, withered wild daisy, freshly placed in a silver saucer.
Footsteps echoed softly. Clara turned to see Lucas, the quietest of the quadruplets, hugging a frayed fleece blanket.
"She used to sing before bedtime," Lucas whispered, his voice trembling before he remembered to put up his guard. "Dad never talks about her. He just works. He thinks if he buys us everything, we’ll forget."
Clara knelt down to meet his eye level, keeping her distance to respect his space. "Grief isn't something you can buy away, Lucas. And you don't have to pretend you're not hurting."
May you like
Lucas blinked back tears, turned on his heel, and vanished into the shadows.
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