Chapter 181: The Grandfather

Isobel stood before the makeshift shelter, unable to bring herself to step inside.

The entrance was nothing more than a faded blue tarpaulin hanging from a length of rope. It fluttered weakly in the evening breeze, offering little protection from the cold or the prying eyes of strangers.

Randy and Yana stood beside her.

Neither child moved. Neither invited her in.

Their heads were lowered, their earlier excitement gone.

Isobel understood. They were ashamed.

And for the first time, she realized just how deeply ashamed they must have been of the place they called home.

She thought of the orphanage where she had grown up.

It had been crowded. The food had sometimes been barely enough. The children had shared everything, including their disappointments and their tears.

But at least there had been a real roof over her head. A wall that protected her from the rain. A bed to sleep in. A flushing toilet, even if it had to be shared by dozens of children.

Here, there was nothing.

Only a bridge as their roof.

A patch of ground.

And whatever scraps other people had thrown away.

Before Isobel could say anything, a harsh, labored cough came from inside.

Her expression changed.

"Let’s go meet your grandfather," she said softly.

Randy swallowed. Then he reached for the tarpaulin, that served as the door.

"Aunt Bel..."

He hesitated.

Isobel placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"It’s all right."

Randy pushed the makeshift door aside.

The sight inside made Isobel’s chest tighten.

The compacted dirt floor had been covered with pieces of old tarpaulin. Along one side were flattened cardboard boxes piled several layers thick, serving as both insulation and bedding.

There was no proper bed and no furniture.

No light except for the weak glow that filtered in from outside.

And on the cardboard bedding lay an old man.

He was painfully thin.

His face was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, and his skin looked almost gray beneath the dim light. A faded blanket covered his lower body while one bony hand rested against his chest.

Another bout of coughing wracked his frail body.

Isobel instinctively stepped forward.

The old man struggled to catch his breath.

Then, hearing the children enter, he slowly opened his eyes.

For a moment, the pain in his face disappeared.

His gaze softened.

"Randy..."

His voice was little more than a rasp.

"Yana..."

The children hurried to his side.

"You’re finally back."

The old man tried to sit up, but Randy quickly helped him.

"I was scared," he whispered. "I thought something had happened to you."

"We’re all right, Grandpa," Yana assured him.

She smiled brightly.

"Aunt Bel helped us. She bought us clothes and food. She even bought you a jacket."

The old man blinked.

"Aunt Bel?"

He looked toward the entrance. His eyes settled on Isobel.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the color seemed to drain from his face.

He stared at her as though he were looking at a ghost.

Isobel felt something strange pass through her.

The old man’s breathing became uneven.

His trembling hand slowly rose from the blanket.

His eyes widened and his lips parted.

"No..."

The word came out as a breath.

Isobel frowned.

"Sir?"

The old man’s eyes never left her face. His lips began to tremble.

"Rosella?"

Isobel froze.

The name struck her like a sudden blow.

"Rosella..."

He said it again, but this time there was such tenderness in his voice that Isobel’s heart began pounding.

Tears gathered in his brown eyes.

"Rosella..."

He smiled. It was the smile of a man who had just been given something he had stopped hoping for long ago.

"Am I dying?"

The two children gasped.

Isobel stared at him.

The old man’s tears spilled freely down his cheeks.

"Is that why you’re here?"

His voice broke.

"Did you finally come to take me home?"

"Grandpa!"

Randy’s face filled with worry. He looked at Yana.

Their grandfather had been sick for days. His fever had been getting worse, and now he was seeing their dead grandmother.

He must be delirious and hallucinating.

Their grandmother, Rosella, had died many years ago, long before Randy and Yana were even born.

"Grandpa, she’s not Grandma," Randy said gently. "She’s Aunt Isobel. She helped us."

The old man barely seemed to hear him.

"No..."

His eyes remained fixed on Isobel.

"How could I mistake her?"

His voice trembled with conviction.

"She is Rosella."

He reached toward her with a shaking hand.

"My sweet sister..."

Isobel’s heart stopped.

His sister?

The old man was looking at her as though he knew her. As though he had been waiting for her. As though the face he saw before him belonged to someone he had loved and lost decades ago.

She slowly crouched beside him.

The smell of sickness and an unwashed body filled the cramped shelter, but she barely noticed.

She no longer saw the cardboard nor the dirty floor.

She did not see the torn tarpaulin and their miserable surroundings.

All she could see was the old man’s face.

His eyes were still fixed on hers. And in those eyes, she saw something that confused her.

Recognition!

Isobel’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Uncle..."

The old man’s expression softened.

Isobel swallowed.

"What is your name?"

The man stared at her as though the question itself had wounded him.

"You..."

His voice cracked.

"How could you forget your own brother’s name?"

Isobel’s breath caught.

Brother.

She turned slowly toward Randy. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

The boy looked confused but answered immediately.

"My grandpa’s name is Leon."

He paused.

"Leon Lancey."

Isobel’s entire body went still.

"Leon Lancey?"

She repeated the name under her breath.

Randy nodded.

"He has the same last name as you, Aunt Bel."

The world seemed to tilt beneath her.

Lancey. Leon Lancey.

She had heard that name before, from the aunt in Greenvale.

A name buried deep inside the fragments of a past Isobel had spent years trying to understand.

Her mother’s only brother. The man she had never met.

Her eyes slowly returned to the sick old man before her.

He was still looking at her.

Still crying. Still calling her by another woman’s name.

"Rosella..."

Isobel’s lips trembled.

She looked at his weathered face again.

The old man closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek.

"You finally came back, little sister."

Isobel’s heart pounded violently against her ribs.

She couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, the impossible thought that had been forming in her mind was no longer impossible.

Isobel stared at the sick man lying beneath the bridge in stunned silence.

For years, she had wondered where she came from.

Now, beneath a bridge, surrounded by cardboard, tarpaulin, sickness, and poverty, she had finally met a living blood relative from her mother’s side.

Leon Lancey.

Her mother’s brother.

Her uncle.