He looked around the study, the sagging shelves, the dust thick on Henry’s books. For the first time, the silence of the estate seemed less suffocating. It was simply the echo of a man who had borne too much alone, leaving behind a puzzle as explanation, not condemnation.
Andrew gathered the documents carefully, wrapping them in cloth. He would not parade them for acclaim, nor bury them again. He would preserve them quietly, respecting the life Henry had chosen. The garden had given up its secret, and with it, Andrew had reclaimed his family’s true story.