Hazel gave a small nod. “Greyson helped select them.”
The Dowager reached out, her frail hand trembling as it hovered uncertainly in the air. Hazel immediately offered her own, and the Dowager took it.
Hazel swallowed hard, touched beyond words. “Would you like me to read to you?”
The Dowager moved and lifted one trembling hand. She pointed first at the book, then at herself. Her lips parted.
A soft, breathy whisper escaped. “May I…?”
Hazel’s breath halted so abruptly she felt it catch in her chest. The Dowager hadspoken.
“Oh,” Hazel gasped, fumbling over her own words. “Of… of course! Please, yes, please. I will listen this time.”
Her fingers trembled as she helped the Dowager steady the book. She glanced instinctively toward the door, wanting Mrs. Atherton, oranyonefor that matter, to witness this miracle. But this moment was too delicate, too sacred and too easily broken. So, Hazel stayed where she was.
She pulled an armchair close enough that their shoulders nearly touched and sat beside the Dowager. She folded her hands tightly in her lap as if keeping still would somehow protect the fragile magic unfolding before her.
The Dowager opened the first page. The paper rustled under her shaky touch. Hazel held her breath. The Dowager’s lips moved, slowly and carefully, as though coaxing sound from a place long sealed. Her voice came out thin, a whisper scraped raw by years of silence.
“The… gard–”
She paused, as her eyes narrowed with concentration.
Hazel leaned forward slightly, but not too much, so as not to overwhelm her. “You are doing beautifully,” she whispered.
The Dowager took a small breath.
“The garden… was… quiet.”
She paused again, breathing through the effort.
Hazel felt tears prick her eyes. She wanted to clap her hands in joy. She wanted to race to Greyson. She wanted the entire household to gather and witness, but she dared not move. She dared not even breathe too loudly.
The dowager found the next line. Her finger traced it slowly.
“A… single… rose… bloomed…”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
Hazel placed a gentle hand over the Dowager’s. “We can stop anytime,” she murmured. “Only as much as you wish.”
But the older woman shook her head. She turned her eyes back to the page with trembling determination. Hazel felt her heart swell so full it almost hurt.
The Dowager continued reading, halting often, in a tone that was whisper-soft. Her every word was both a battle and a triumph all at once. Hazel listened with reverent silence, hardly daring to blink.
This was more than speech. It was a reclamation of strength, of self, of something that grief had stolen a long time ago.
When the Dowager paused again, her gaze drifted to Hazel’s, as if seeking approval.
Hazel’s voice broke on a whisper. “It is perfect.Youare perfect.”
The Dowager’s eyes glistened.
Hazel sat there, listening to the slow, whispered reading, feeling her heart fill with awe, gratitude, and love for this fragile, brave woman who had chosen, for the first time in so long, to step out of silence.
And as she listened, Hazel thought:Greyson must know. But not yet. Not now. This moment belongs to her.
