Keller Estate – That Evening
The rain had not stopped.
It wept steadily over the wide stone paths and hedgerows of the Keller Estate, pattering on the slate roof tiles and pooling at the base of the cherry trees Ethan had once planted—more for looks than love of nature. But now they stood like solemn sentinels around the great house, their petals lost to the storm.
Inside, Amelie moved through the halls like a spirit in a house of ghosts.
Her gray hair was pinned into a tight, neat bun, though wisps had escaped during the long day. She still wore her funeral dress—black, high-collared, crisply ironed—and her shoes made no sound on the polished wood. The scent of her lavender-and-clove soap lingered faintly in her wake, a smell that had come to mean “home” in the quietest corners of the Keller house.
She carried a tea tray: Earl Grey for Ken, hot cocoa for the boys. She’d known what they would want before they asked. She always had.
She stopped at the living room door.
The new living room, that is—new in the way it had been scrubbed clean of the past, rearranged for comfort and family rather than high-society hosting. The photo of Ethan Keller,the Blue Boxer, with his square jaw and colder eyes—had been moved to the hall. No one noticed its absence but her.
Inside, the lights were low. Ken sat on the couch, arms folded, watching the news without really seeing it. Jack and Ethan lay curled up on the rug in front of the fire, their funeral suits discarded for sweatshirts and socks. They’d kicked off their shoes. They were watching the fire the way boys did, with thoughts as flickering and quick as the flames themselves.
They looked so small.
But they had been bigger once.
Amelie stood in the doorway a moment longer, steadying herself.
You are not young anymore, old girl, she thought. You should not be asked to do this all over again.
But she stepped into the room anyway.
“Le thé est prêt,” she said gently, placing the tray on the low table.
“Thanks, Amelie,” said Ken, reaching for the tea.
Jack blinked up at her. “Did you put marshmallows in mine?”
“I am not a savage,” she replied with a sniff, handing him a mug with three pink-and-white ones already melted in.
Ethan took his without a word, staring down into the steam and sniffing the aroma like a puppy.
She sat in the chair near the fire, her old hands folded on her lap,her eyes still on Ethan.
He does not remember.
The thought came like a stone dropping in her chest.
He did not remember standing at the top of the stairs at age twelve, trembling and barefoot, after the news of his mother’s murder reached them. He did not remember the numb silence of his father, the way the man had stopped shaving, stopped seeing his son. He did not remember the night that same father went into the underworld of Grit City and never came out.
He did not remember the funeral that time, either.
Nor the way she had held him when he woke up screaming for a mother he could no longer picture.
He does not remember... but I do.
She remembered brushing his hair and packing his lunches when no other staff would stay. She remembered hiding the combat manuals he found and snuck under his pillow at thirteen. She remembered watching the sweet boy vanish behind masks—literal and emotional—as he built his grown-up armor.
She had buried that boy once already.
Now he was here again. A child again.
And she could not—would not—waste this second chance.
Ethan,having gulped his cocoa in record time, yawned without thinking and leaned against Jack’s shoulder. Jack elbowed him lightly but didn’t move away. The two were starting to do that—drift together when they were tired. Mirror each other’s moods. Act like brothers who didn’t know they were something else entirely.
“Did we have to lie about the funeral?” Jack asked suddenly. “I mean… it was kinda weird. Pretending to be someone else’s kid.”
Ethan shrugged. “I dunno. Felt... like the right thing. Like letting go.”
Ken looked at them from the couch. “It was the only way to keep you both safe. Nobody’s going to come looking for you if they think you’re gone.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “Still weird.”
“But necessary,” Amelie said, folding her hands tighter. “There are many things in this life, petit chou, that are strange but necessary.”
Jack squinted. “What’s a... petti-shoe?”
“It means you are small, and sweet,” she replied dryly. “Like a cabbage.”
Jack looked horrified. Ethan laughed.
Ken leaned back against the cushions, his shoulders finally easing.
Amelie studied him for a moment, too.
Ken. Not a boy anymore, but a young man. Taller now than she remembered, and far more careful with his strength. She remembered how he used to hide behind her apron as a child when Ethan brought home more intimidating guests. Now he held the keys to the entire estate. A protector. A leader.
Ethan left him too much to carry, she thought. But he carries it anyway.
“You’re doing well,” she said aloud.
Ken looked up. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No one does. Especially when it matters most.” She smiled faintly. “You will make mistakes. But you will also make pancakes. That balances out.”
Ken chuckled softly. “Is that in the nanny handbook?”
“I wrote the handbook.”
The room grew quiet again.
Ethan had dozed off, finally, cheek smushed against Jack’s shoulder,with chocolate mustache around his mouth. Jack yawned once, then leaned his head against Ethan’s.
Amelie rose carefully. She fetched a folded blanket from the back of the chair and laid it over the boys, tucking the edges beneath their arms with a practiced grace.
Ken watched her. “Do you really think we can do this?”
Amelie gave a small shrug. “You have done harder things, mon petit. And besides—look at them.”
Ken followed her gaze.
Two boys. Sleepy. Safe. Warm.
“I see hope,” Amelie said. “I see a beginning.”
And for the first time in a very long time—longer than most people could guess—Amelie believed it.