Chapter95 – Goodnight, Clarissa
Clarissa was seated at her dressing table, casually patting her face dry with a towel. Her voice was soft. “What is it, Atticus?”
“Nothing really.” He held up the mug in his hand. “You seemed a little down lately. I thought maybe you weren’t sleeping well, so I warmed up some milk for you. You should drink it while it’s hot.”
Clarissa turned and smiled gently. “You’re thoughtful tonight.”
She accepted the mug without hesitation and took a sip. The warmth of the milk spread through her chest.
Atticus watched her closely, his voice low. “Is it good?”
Clarissa nodded. “Of course. It’s from my little brother—it’s bound to taste better.”
Clarissa sipped again, then as if remembering something, added, “By the way, I was thinking I should visit Grandpa sometime soon.”
Atticus didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go with you. It’s been a while since I played chess with old Mr. Callum.”
She smiled again, a little sleepily this time. “Thanks.”
A yawn slipped out of her, and Atticus noticed immediately. “You tired?”
“Mm, a bit.”
“Then lie down. You should sleep.”
Clarissa didn’t argue. She stood up, lazily tugged out her hair from the bun, letting it fall in a damp cascade down her back, and climbed into bed.
Atticus followed her movements with his eyes, a quiet tension building in his chest. As she pulled the blanket up, he reached over and gently tucked the quilt corners around her without a word.
Moments later, Clarissa’s breathing began to even out. She’d fallen asleep fast.
Atticus stood beside the bed, watching her. The soft rise and fall of her chest. The curve of her lips, slightly parted. The way one hand lay loosely by her cheek, curled like a petal.
He leaned down, letting his fingers hover just above her face—then gave in.
First, he traced the arch of her brow, then the delicate slope of her nose. Finally, his fingertip brushed against the fullness of her lips.
He lingered there, brushing lightly, over and over, his own breath slowing.
But in the end, he withdrew. Not yet, he thought. Not now.
Instead, he bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead—soft, lingering.
“Goodnight, Clarissa,” he whispered.
Then he turned and quietly closed the door behind him.
......
When the holidays came, Clarissa and Atticus returned to the countryside to visit their grandfather, Callum.
The old man was sitting outside in a worn wicker chair, basking in the sun like a contented cat. His eyes were closed, pipe resting beside him. The sound of a car engine drew his attention, and he cracked one eye open.
Clarissa stepped out of the car first, looking fresh and graceful as ever. Behind her came Atticus, his arms full of gifts and groceries.
Callum grunted and leaned his head back.
“Grandpa...” Clarissa called softly as they approached.
Callum didn’t answer at first. Just let out another grunt. “What wind blew you two in?”
He peered past them, eyes scanning the car. When he didn’t see the person he was hoping for, his voice turned sharp.
“Where’s that damn girl? Hiding in the back again? Doesn’t dare face me? Just wait till I drag her out by the ear!”
He started to rise from his chair, already grumbling under his breath.
But Clarissa caught his arm.
“Grandpa… Mom didn’t come.”
Callum froze.
“What did you say?” he rasped, turning toward her fully.
Clarissa’s smile faltered. Her eyes dropped to the ground, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled.
“She’s not coming anymore, Grandpa. Not again.”
Callum looked at her for a long moment. Then slowly sank back into his chair, pipe forgotten at his side.
Inside the old wooden house, the atmosphere was heavy and quiet.
Clarissa sat beside Callum, gently massaging his temples with slow, comforting movements. His complexion was alarmingly pale, his body seeming to sink deeper into the recliner with every passing minute.
Atticus entered quietly with a cup of warm water and handed it to Clarissa, who immediately brought it to Callum’s lips. He drank in small sips, his once-bright eyes now cloudy and rimmed with unshed tears.
“Fate,” he rasped, voice hoarse and low. “All of this… is fate. What the hell was I thinking, back then…”
A few months ago, her condition had appeared to be improving. He thought they still had time—plenty of time. But that final farewell had turned out to be forever.
“Grandpa…” Clarissa’s voice cracked.
Watching Callum like this, so diminished, so broken, sent a sharp ache through her chest. Her lips trembled, and her eyes turned red with the threat of tears. “I didn’t protect her well enough… I failed her…”
“You silly girl.” Callum reached up weakly and wiped her cheek with a trembling hand. “Don’t go blaming yourself. Life doesn’t work that way.”
Clarissa tried to blink back the moisture in her eyes, but it was no use.
Callum sighed, leaning back into the cushions, clearly exhausted. “Let me rest a while. Just give me a little time alone.”
Clarissa nodded silently and stood, tugging Atticus by the arm as they left the room together.
From that day forward, Clarissa rarely left her grandfather’s side. She kept him company, quietly supporting him as he drifted in and out of fatigue. Atticus, meanwhile, spent most of his time playing chess with Callum—something the old man still took pleasure in.
One afternoon, while Clarissa was busy in the kitchen, Callum studied Atticus over the chessboard. The boy’s gaze was focused, steady, his expression calm and unreadable.
A man’s temperament, Callum believed, could be measured through chess.
It wasn’t just about logic and calculation—chess revealed patience, foresight, and the ability to see the bigger picture. The truly skilled never rushed their moves.
And every game with Atticus brought a new surprise. The kid had talent.
“How old are you again?” Callum asked offhandedly.
“I’ll be sixteen in two months.”
Callum chuckled. “Still just a child.”
Then, after a beat, he added, “But old enough.”
He stared at the board for another moment, then pushed his pieces away. “No need to finish. I lost again.”
Atticus said nothing.
Callum’s gaze narrowed, more thoughtful now. “Boy… have you ever thought about studying medicine?”
.....
After that conversation, Atticus began to follow Callum every day.
Each morning, before the sun had fully risen, Callum packed dry rations and led Atticus up into the mountains. They returned at dusk, both worn.
After a month, Atticus had grown noticeably leaner. His skin had darkened from the sun, but there was a new sharpness in his eyes. A quiet energy. A fire.
Clarissa guessed, correctly, that her grandfather was teaching him medicine.
One evening, after Callum went to bed early from sheer exhaustion, Clarissa finally managed to pull Atticus aside in the courtyard. The fading sunlight cast soft gold along his profile.
“Atticus,” she asked, “is Grandpa really teaching you medicine?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Clarissa let out a breath, visibly relieved. “That’s good. It’s hard—especially Grandpa’s kind. His medicine is far more complex than anything you’ll find in textbooks. You have to study hard.”
Atticus’s lips quirked slightly, a quiet amusement flickering in his eyes. “It’s… deep. Very deep.”
Clarissa looked at him properly then. Even dressed in a coarse linen shirt and carrying a rope-tied basket across his back, he still managed to exude a refined calm. The boy was growing into a man—and fast.
She tilted her head slightly. “Are you tired?”
“Not really. It’s actually kind of interesting.”
Then, as if on instinct, he reached out and took her hand. His fingers were warm and slightly rough from handling herbs and roots. But the grip was firm, steady.
“Sis,” he said softly, “come with me.”