Luca

I was ten years old when I first laid eyes on him, his scruffy hair, tattered clothes. Peering through my window, I observed a lad, appearing no more than thirteen, emerging from a weathered, battered car that seemed out of place against the backdrop of Sterling Manor. Rusty and ancient, it was an odd sight in our pristine estate.

Limping toward Mr. Hart, our estate groundskeeper, the boy received an awkward yet affectionate embrace. My fascination intensified as the boy turned to survey the vastness of my home. However, what I glimpsed through my window left me breathless, causing my pencil to roll off my drawing pad.

"Olive?" Miss Graham's voice interrupted my reverie as she entered my room, prompting me to turn towards her with a flinch. She was the head house keeper.

"You've missed breakfast," she remarked. "Shall I bring it up for you?"

I declined with a shake of my head, returning my attention to the window. Yet, both the boy and Mr. Hart had vanished into the cabin beyond the estate, where Mr. Hart had resided for as long as my memory served.

"I saw a boy," I declared, retrieving my drawing materials from the floor.

"A boy?" Miss Graham's lips curled into a subtle smile as she followed my gaze out the window.

"Ah, Arthur's grandson," she nodded, recalling the connection. "Poor lad has faced quite a bit, Olive."

"What happened to his... face?" I inquired, locking eyes with her gentle grey gaze. Pity and sorrow flickered in her expression, and with a sigh, Miss Graham cautioned, "We mustn't pry, Olive, dear."

The following morning, I mustered the courage to join breakfast, adorned in my finest dress embellished with purple frills. My brother, Alex, couldn't help but scoff as I entered the grand dining room.

"Olive, darling!" my mother chimed, welcoming me as I settled next to her. "Good morning, mum, dad," I greeted, smiling at my father, engrossed in his book while sipping tea. His brows furrowed at my attire. "What is the meaning of this, Olive?" he inquired.

My mother's laughter echoed in the room. "Let her be, Teddy. She's a growing girl and wants to look nice. Don't you, darling?" she teased.

I nodded, glancing down at my empty plate, too apprehensive to meet my father's gaze. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

After breakfast, I roamed the gardens as I would often do but this time I strayed farther towards the ground keeper’s cabin. Coming to an abrupt halt, I discovered the boy seated on the front porch. A shiver ran down my spine as the wind howled, and he looked up, sensing my presence. A gasp escaped me involuntarily.

Close-up, the boy bore a tapestry of bruises, with a prominent cut on his lower lip. As he rose, fixing a cold gaze upon me, I couldn't ignore the roughened skin along the right side of his face. Intrigued, I unintentionally prolonged my stare. The boy, reacting with narrowed eyes, abruptly turned away, retreating swiftly into the cabin. Only then did I release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

The door swung open once more, and Mr. Hart emerged, his reassuring smile calming my racing heart. "Little Miss, is that you?" he inquired. I returned the smile, saying, "Yes, Mr. Hart."

"Is everything okay? You never venture this far out," he noted with concern.

"Yes, Mr. Hart, I was just looking for... something to draw." Retrieving my pad and pencil from my bag, I presented them with a smile. Mr. Hart nodded kindly, "Okay, Little Miss. Just be careful not to go too far."

"I won't," I assured him, watching as Mr. Hart made his way back into the cabin.

I stood there, a brief moment of introspection washing over me. What had drawn me to this spot? It was undeniably my curiosity that led me here. Who was that boy? A subtle but distinct awareness tingled through my bones, as if unseen eyes were fixed upon me. Gazing up at the cabin windows, I found no observers, yet the feeling lingered. With a reluctant turn, I began to walk away.

Sterling Manor embodied the epitome of aristocratic living, a testament to our family's old money heritage, woven into a tapestry of wealth and influence. Approaching the river bank encircling the estate, a proud wooden bridge arched gracefully over the water. Seating myself, I immersed in the act of drawing, yet an unshakable sense persisted - a feeling that elusive eyes continued to watch my every stroke, every move.

As the days seamlessly melted into weeks, my footsteps found their way back to the cabin, a quiet yearning echoing within me. Yet, he never appeared again, leaving a void tinged with disappointment. It felt impolite to stare, but my heart brimmed with unspoken questions. His sorrowful, broken demeanor lingered in my thoughts, particularly those striking green eyes that captivated me. In a family adorned with honey brown eyes, the rarity of that emerald gaze left an indelible impression, haunting my consciousness.

Weeks stretched into months, and within the confines of homeschooling, my brother and I received education from the finest tutors. Despite the world-class learning, the manor's walls, once a sanctuary, began to feel constricting as I matured. The space that once embraced me now seemed to tighten its grip.

My brother, Alexander, eventually gained the privilege of attending school after a year. Jealousy gripped me as I questioned why I couldn't have the same opportunity. My mother tried to reassure me, explaining that Alex would follow in our father's footsteps— a tradition for the men of the family. Their promise of university in the future offered a modicum of solace, yet an inexplicable sense of confinement persisted. Grappling with the contradiction of wealth and the emotional walls closing in, I yearned for a freedom that seemed elusive.

On the morning of my sixteenth birthday, a captivating moment unfolded as I descended the grand staircase. Amidst the grandeur of the dining table adorned with an enormous cake, surrounded by a lavish display of balloons, and a plethora of gifts wrapped in pretty pink paper, my attention was abruptly captured elsewhere. In the tea room, he stood alongside his grandfather, both engrossed in fixing an old shelving unit. The boy's back faced me, his physique noticeably more robust than before. With each flex of muscle, he expertly wielded a hammer, securing the wood with precision—unaware of my presence.

Then, in an instant, he turned, as if sensing my gaze. The air seemed to vanish from my lungs as I met his gaze. Astonishingly, the bruises and cuts that once marred his appearance had disappeared, leaving only the roughness along the right side of his face—a silent testament to endured burns. Realization struck me, but it was too late; I had lingered too long in my observation. The boy, catching my gaze, narrowed his eyes before turning away in a huff.

This time, I refused to let him evade my gaze—I simply wouldn't. Disregarding my mother's disapproval, I breezed into the tea room.

"Little miss!" Mr. Hart beamed. "Happy Birthday!"

"Thank you," I smiled shyly, though it faltered when I noticed the boy wasn't even acknowledging me. Undeterred, he continued with his task. Mr. Hart, following my gaze to the boy, coughed to grab his attention. A silent exchange unfolded between them; then the boy rolled his eyes and stood up, towering over me with his impressive height.

"Olive, this is my grandson Luca. He'd like to wish you happy birthday, but please don't mind him; he cannot... speak."

The boy then looked at me, his gaze apprehensive, looking out for any judgment in my own. I smiled, "Nice to meet you, Luca." I extended my hand. Luca looked at his grandfather and then back to my hand. "She won't bite," Mr. Hart chuckled.

Luca reluctantly took my hand, and as our hands met, I gulped, I could almost feel the roughness of the skin on the right side of his face. The abrupt way he pulled his hand back snapped me out of my daze. I attempted to apologize with my eyes, but he turned away, resuming his work.

"You have a good day now, little miss. Looks like your parents have spoiled you rotten," Mr. Hart cheerfully exclaimed. I smiled before rejoining my mother.

Later that day, I enjoyed cake with Miss Graham in the expansive kitchen. "Do you like the cake?" she inquired. I nodded eagerly and took another spoonful. It wasn't the grand cake my mother had ordered; instead, it was a small Victoria sponge that Miss Graham had baked for me—knowing it was my favorite, served with a touch of hot custard. My gaze drifted to the tea room, but Mr. Hart and Luca had departed ages ago.

"What's on your mind, puppet?" Miss Graham whispered. Summoning a bit of strength, I whispered a small, "Luca."

Miss Graham raised her brow but nodded in understanding. "You want to know what happened to him?" she asked. I nodded, then averted my gaze, recognizing the boundaries of prying yet feeling an overwhelming intrigue toward Luca. He stirred emotions within me that I struggled to comprehend.

"Okay, Olive. I will tell you. But this must stay between us. Is that clear?”

“I promise!” I replied, desperation evident in my voice.

“Well then, it isn’t the most fairy tale of stories, Olive. In fact, it’s the complete opposite. Arthur’s son, Luca’s father, died shortly after Luca was born. Cancer,” she grimaced. “His mother remarried, a man who was a monster, the devil. Luca’s mother abandoned him with that evil man, and…” tears welled up in her grey eyes. She sighed heavily. “Arthur has taken him in; he didn’t even know about that poor boy. One day he received a phone call to say he had a grandson and he needed help. Arthur was heartbroken when he saw him. But he recognized his own son’s eyes through the boy.” She wiped her tears with her napkin.

“Your father has been kind enough to send a tutor to teach Luca a basic education. But Luca doesn’t want to know. He’d rather help with tasks around the estate. He doesn’t speak; he’s not spoken a word since the incident that caused the… burns.” She shuddered, and a solemn pause hung in the air.

I blew out a slow breath as all this information altered me as a person a little. I had been so guarded that I had no clue about the world and what lurked outside of these walls. No amount of books and stories could prepare me for how real this moment was. My heart felt heavy with sadness, and a dry lump formed in my throat.

That night, I lay in bed, not a single thought dwelling on the extravagant birthday party that had been thrown for me. Instead, my mind was consumed by the haunting image of those forlorn emerald eyes and what they had seen.