Page 88 of Ruins
Not until we reach the bottom of the stairs, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door.
His home office.
Santo pauses.
“Vasilisa.” His voice is different this time. Calm, but final.
“This is your home now, you are welcome everywhere, except one place.” His gaze flicks to the closed door.
It’s a warning.
And I understand. His world has merged with mine, but not completely. Some parts remain locked away.
I nod, offering a small smile. For now, what he’s given is enough.
Santo watches me for a moment longer, then his expression shifts. Softer.
He takes my hand again—and this time there's a sense of excitement behind it.
He leads me toward the back of the house, stopping at the large glass sliding doors. “I want to show you our garden,” he says proudly escorting me outside.
My heart leaps at the word.
Our.
Santo leads me down the stone path, his grip steady as he guides me deeper into the garden’s embrace. The further we walk, the more I realize this place is a hidden paradise.
The vibrant colors spill out around us in a breathtaking array; fiery reds of the roses, calming blues of the hydrangeas, the soft blush of peonies tucked into the greenery. Nothing is out of place. Every flower, every vine, every stone in the path feels meticulously placed, a work of art cultivated with care and intention.
I can feel his gaze on me as I take it all in.
At every turn, something new captures my attention. I pause, bending to admire unfamiliar blooms, inhaling their delicate scents, running my fingers along petals that feel impossibly soft. But when I spot the lilies, my heart flutters.
I glance at Santo, but he says nothing—only watches.
“This is my favorite part of the garden.”
His voice is quieter now, almost reverent, as we approach a stone bench nestled between two towering magnolia trees.
I gasp softly.
The blossoms shower down like a cascade of soft pink and white petals, forming a delicate canopy above the bench. Sunlight filters through the branches, casting golden halos around us, illuminating the space with an almost ethereal glow.
It feels untouched by time. Sacred.
My fingers slip from his as I step forward, unable to tear my gaze away from the sheer beauty of it all.
I turn back to him, emotions welling in my chest.
A lump forms in my throat, my voice hoarse with emotion. “Santo…” I whisper. “This... this is gorgeous.”
His features soften, just slightly, and he walks toward me, reclaiming my hand in his.
“I wanted to share this with you.” He angles himself toward me, his expression wavering.
“My mother loved this garden,” he continues, his voice low, weighted. “I continued to build it in her memory.”
I blink in surprise, absorbing his words.
