As the days turned into weeks, I settled into a rhythm at the mansion. My mornings were filled with caring for Mr. Beaumont, and I found solace in the quiet moments spent in his company. Each day, I worked to chip away at his indifference, slowly unraveling the layers of his guarded heart.
One afternoon, as I prepared lunch in the kitchen, I heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching. I turned to find Mr. Beaumont standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“Is there something you need?” I asked, trying to maintain a friendly tone, sometimes he’s nice sometimes he’s on the edge, he’s just not easy to read.
“I was wondering if you could help me with something,” he replied, his voice steadier than usual.
“Of course! What do you need?” I asked, excitement bubbling up inside of me.
He hesitated for a moment, then gestured towards the hallway. “There are some boxes in the attic I need to sort through. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”
OMG! it felt like I was hearing things, Mr Beaumont asking for my help, I can’t believe it.” Of course, I’d be happy to assist. Let me just finish preparing lunch, and we can tackle it together.” I said excitedly.
He nodded, leaving the kitchen, I watched him as he left and couldn’t contain my excitement.
“Yes !” I exclaimed, I immediately returned to my task, working faster than usual, at that point I started having double thoughts, yes I was anticipating it however I couldn’t help my nervousness aswell.
The attic held the promise of uncovering more about him and his life, and I just hoped it would allow us to connect on a deeper level, I’d hate to live with someone who can’t atleast communicate with me.
After lunch, we made our way to the attic, the wooden stairs creaking beneath our weight. The air grew cooler as we ascended, and I felt a sense of adventure bubbling within me. When we reached the top, I was greeted by a dimly lit space filled with dust-covered boxes.
“Here they are,” Mr. Beaumont said, gesturing to a stack of boxes in the corner. “I haven’t opened them in years.”
I could see the hesitation in his eyes, and I gently encouraged him. “Let’s see what’s inside. It might be a nice trip down memory lane.” I said excitedly.
“Luckily I came along with a sister,” I said walking over to the boxes, dusting off the dirt on them.
He took a deep breath, and joined me to pull them out, together we began to sort through the boxes. The first few were filled with old books, their spines cracked and faded. As I handed them to him, I couldn’t help but admire the titles. Classics and history books arranged in the boxes.
“Your taste in literature is impressive,” I said, hoping to spark a conversation, not just sparking a conversation I actually admired his taste.
“Books were my escape,” he replied, his voice softening as he ran his hand through them softly. “They still are.”
As we continued to sift through the boxes, we uncovered photographs-black-and-white snapshots of a younger Mr. Beaumont with his wife and daughter. I could see the joy in his eyes in those moments captured in time, and it made my heart ache for the loss he had endured.
“Is this your family?” I asked gently, holding up a picture of a smiling woman and a little girl with bright eyes.
He took the photo from my hands, his expression shifting to one of sorrow. “Yes. My wife, Claire, and our daughter, Juliette.”
The pain on his face was very visible, I can’t imagine the trauma and all he must have gone through. “They were beautiful.”
“They were,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost them both in a plane crash many years ago.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, and I wished I had a way of consoling him, but how do one console someone who had gone through so much pain ? I was speechless and the only words I could manage out were,. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Beaumont. That must have been incredibly difficult.”
He nodded, his gaze distant as he stared at the photograph. “It was. I’ve spent years trying to fill the void they left behind, but it’s never truly gone.”
I reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “I can only imagine, but you don’t have to go through this alone anymore. I’m here for you.”
He looked at me, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Why do you care?”
“Because I see you, Mr. Beaumont. I see the pain you carry, and I want to help you find some peace,” I replied.
For a moment, I thought I saw a crack in his armor. He blinked, and the vulnerability in his expression made my chest tighten. “You’re an unusual person, Nora.”
I smiled softly.”Unusual is good Mr Beaumont, normal is boring.”
He laughed hard at my statement, and that alone put a smile on my face.
We continued to sift through the boxes, sharing stories and memories. As we uncovered more photographs, each one held a fragment of his past-happy moments, laughter, and love. I could see how much he had cherished those times, and it made me want to help him reclaim that joy.
Eventually, we came across an old journal, its leather cover worn and faded. “What’s this?” I asked, intrigued.
He hesitated, his fingers brushing over the cover. “It was Claire’s. She used to write in it often.”
“Would you like to read some passages together?” I suggested gently.
He looked uncertain but nodded slowly. “Alright.”
We settled onto the floor, and I opened the journal carefully, revealing pages filled with Claire’s handwriting.
As I read aloud, I felt as if I was stepping into her world. She wrote about her dreams, her love for her family, and the little joys of everyday life. Each word felt like I was getting to know her more and more.
He listened intently, his expression softening as he absorbed his late wife’s thoughts. For the first time, I saw a glimmer of emotion flicker in his eyes-nostalgia mixed with a profound sense of loss.
As the afternoon sun streamed through the attic window, I realized we were no longer just caregiver and patient; we were two individuals connected by shared experiences and understanding. The walls he had built around himself were starting to crumble, and I felt honored to be part of that journey.
After we finished reading, he closed the journal and looked at me, his gaze more open than ever before. “Thank you for this, Nora. I didn’t expect to feel this way again.”
“It’s okay to remember, Mr. Beaumont. It’s part of healing,” I said softly. “You have so many beautiful memories to cherish.”
He nodded, a smile breaking through his usual hard face. “You have a gift for bringing light into dark places.”
I smiled back, feeling more excited. “Maybe my parents should have named me light,” I said pretending to be in deep thought.
“Maybe the should,” he replied, his smile wider.
“I just want you to find joy again Mr Beaumont, and I hope you can help me help you.”
“Ooh Nora dear!” He said, however I was quiet and just continued sorting out the stuffs.
As we left the attic, I felt like I had a new purpose. Each moment we spent together was a step toward healing, not just for him but for me as well. I was learning that vulnerability could lead to strength, and I was determined to help him reclaim the happiness he had lost.
Later that evening, as I settled into bed, I reflected on the day’s events. I felt a deeper connection with him and I was excited to see where our journey would lead us to next.
“I think it’s high time I tell him the truth, before it’s too late.” I said to myself.
With a smile on my face, I closed my eyes, ready to embrace whatever tomorrow would bring and hopefully it’s better.