Chapter 4: Leaving the Past Behind

At first, I thought moving into the Caldwell house meant starting a new life. I nearly brought the entire Brooks place with me—boxes and trunks piled everywhere, like I was trying to drag my whole childhood across town.

The house smelled like dust and old cedar, the kind of scent that sticks to your hair and makes you think of childhood summers. The Brooks things were easy to sort, but Harper was unsure about Ethan’s gifts.

"Miss, these few..." Harper held a velvet box, looking nervous, like it might bite her. "These were from Ethan. Should we take them?"

My fingers brushed over them one by one.

The mother-of-pearl hairpin—he’d pinned it in my hair himself at last year’s Christmas party. The faded bunny lantern—he’d carried it through the crowd that night, saying, "Remember, Rachel loves lanterns. For the rest of your life, I’ll take you to see them."

A poem, a handkerchief—every item once felt like treasure. I’d been so happy I couldn’t sleep all night. Now I couldn’t even look at them without feeling sick.

"Leave them," I said, my voice barely there.

I turned to tidy the desk. My sleeve brushed the pen cup, water spreading across the paper—just like when he’d given me the writing set, and I’d spilled ink everywhere. The faint stain on the wood was a scar that never quite faded.

The packing commotion was loud. The house manager hurried over, eyes flicking between boxes, hesitant. "Miss, are you going somewhere?" He fiddled with his tie, avoiding my eyes.

The annulment papers hadn’t arrived, so I lied. "There’s still a month before the wedding. Tradition says we shouldn’t meet before marriage. I’ll go back to the Brooks place for now."

The manager nodded, relieved.

By the next day, the rooms were nearly empty. The manager returned with workers and relayed Ethan’s new orders:

"Mr. Caldwell says his advisor has no family in Maple Heights and will temporarily stay in the Caldwell house."

"The advisor isn’t well, and the west wing gets good sunlight—perfect for her to recover. Mr. Caldwell asks that Miss clear out the west wing."

The staff had already dug up the crabapple trees Ethan and I had planted together. The sight of the roots, still clinging to earth, twisted something in my chest.

"The advisor prefers silk trees. Mr. Caldwell says to plant them all over the west wing."

Such obvious favoritism.

The crabapple tree crashed to the ground. Fallen petals buried in the dirt. Maybe Ethan forgot—my favorite view was the crabapples after rain in the west wing. He once said it would be our bedroom.

With a snap, the swing under the tree broke. The sound echoed, sharp and final.

The manager hovered, offering, "If you want, we can put up another swing out back, Miss."

"No need."

I bent to pick up a crabapple branch. I didn’t care anymore. The petals stuck to my fingers, soft and cold.

"The Caldwell house belongs to Ethan Caldwell. He can do whatever he wants."

His promise of forever lasted three years. The memory faded, like chalk after rain.