Inheritance Redefined

Chapter Two

Morning came early. Too early.

Elara sat up in bed, blinking at the sunlight pouring through the cream-colored curtains. The clock on her nightstand said 7:03, but her body insisted it was 6:03. London time.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes, then reached for the hair tie on her wrist and twisted her pale braid back into place. Jet lag was real, apparently - not just something people said. Her limbs felt slow, like they were still somewhere over the English Channel.

For a long moment, she just sat there.

Her room was still quiet. The whole house, really. The kind of silence that came from thick walls and people who didn't bother with small talk. She missed the clatter of her mum making toast, the kettle whistling, the familiar damp chill of early London mornings.

Italy was warmer. Brighter. But not softer.

At least not yet.

---

Elara dressed quickly - a soft sweater and the same worn sneakers from yesterday - then slipped out of her room, her footsteps light on the hallway floor. The house was so big it felt like walking through a 5-star hotel where she was the only guest.

Eventually, she found a door to the garden.

The door creaked slightly as she opened it, and warm, damp air brushed her face - sweet with the smell of citrus and something earthy. Lemon trees stretched along a gravel path, their bright yellow fruit hanging like ornaments on a christmas tree.

She walked slowly, taking it all in: sunlight caught in leaves, bees humming lazily between flowerbeds, a stone bench tucked beneath a blossoming arch of white roses. It was too perfect to be real.

Too perfect to be hers.

Still, she sat on the bench and tilted her face toward the sun, soaking it all up. Her fingers curled around the edge of the stone.

In London, this time of year, she'd already be skating.
Cold rink. Blades on ice. Breath visible in the chill air.
Here, the only cold thing was the marble floor in her new room.

She missed the way time felt back home - the rush of school mornings, the rhythm of practice, her mother's cheerful chaos. This place was all stillness, space, and people who didn't quite look at her.

Except...

Someone was looking now.

---

Elara heard a soft shuffle of gravel behind her.

She turned.

A few metres away, a boy - maybe eighteen or nineteen - stood, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a notebook. His dark hair was tousled, like he hadn't bothered to brush it, and he wore a slightly wrinkled shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He looked like someone who wasn't used to being interrupted.

Elara sat straighter. "Oh - sorry. Is this your spot?"

He blinked. "No, it's not ."
Then, after a pause: "You're Elara."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she said, then added gently, "And you're...?"

A longer pause this time, "Raffaele."

He didn't offer a handshake. But he didn't walk away either.

Instead, he walked closer and sat on the edge of the low stone wall opposite her, flipping his notebook closed. She caught the faintest glimpse of lots of numbers.

"You like math?" she asked.

He nodded once. "Yes."

Elara smiled, not pushing. He didn't seem like the small-talk type. Elara still tried though.

"I like your garden," she said after a moment.

He shrugged. "It's not mine either."

Elara smiled. "Is anything yours around here?"

Raffaele didn't smile, but the edge of his mouth twitched upward - just a little. "The olive tree near the east wall. No one else likes it there. So I claimed it."

"Good choice, sometimes the overlooked ones are the best," she siad, not entirely talking about his spot anymore.

He looked at her, longer this time. Something in his expression softened.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

Elara tilted her head and smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He didn't say anything else. Just stood slowly, tucking his notebook under one arm.

"The bench is warmer if you sit on the left side. Catches more sun."

And then, just like that, he was walking away.