Chapter 10 - THE POCKET WATCH
I stared at the heavy gold pocket watch resting in the palm of my hand.
The glass face was severely cracked, a spiderweb of fractured glass obscuring the delicate gold hands beneath.
I ran my thumb over the smooth, polished back of the casing. Unlike the locket, there was no engraving on the outside. But it was heavy, far heavier than a normal watch should be.
“Gabriel,” I called out softly, stepping into the grand foyer of the villa.
Gabriel emerged from the kitchen, a genuine smile on his face as he watched Leo happily crawling across the soft, woven rugs. When he saw my face, his smile faltered slightly.
“What is it?” he asked, walking over to me.
I handed him the cracked pocket watch. “This was at the bottom of the box. Did it belong to your father?”
Gabriel examined the watch, his brow furrowing in confusion. He shook his head. “No. My father preferred modern pieces. He never carried a pocket watch.”
He pressed the small latch at the top. The casing popped open with a quiet click.
The watch was broken. The hands were permanently frozen, stopped exactly at 3:15.
But Gabriel wasn't looking at the hands.
“Look at the inside of the lid,” he whispered, tilting the watch toward the light.
Hidden inside the top cover of the watch was a tiny, perfectly preserved photograph.
It was a picture of my mother and Gabriel’s mother, sitting together on a beautiful stone terrace overlooking the ocean. They looked incredibly young, happy, and carefree.
But it wasn't the women that made my heart stop.
My mother was holding a baby boy.
He looked to be about two years old, with dark curls and a bright, infectious smile.
“Who is that?” I breathed, my hands trembling as I pointed to the child. “I didn't have a brother. Did Sofia have an older sibling Carlo didn't mention?”
Gabriel stared at the photograph, his face draining of all color. He traced his thumb over the tiny image of the little boy’s face.
“Look closer, Elina,” Gabriel said, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn't place. “Look at his right cheek.”
I squinted at the faded photograph.
There, crossing the little boy’s right cheek, was a thin, distinct, pale scar.
My eyes darted up to Gabriel’s face. To the exact same thin, pale scar crossing his own right cheek.
“That’s you,” I gasped, stepping back in absolute shock.
Gabriel closed his eyes, gripping the pocket watch tightly. “Yes.”
“But... but my mother is holding you. Why is my mother holding you like you were her own?”
Gabriel opened the watch again, his thumb pressing firmly against the edge of the photograph. With a soft click, the picture popped out, revealing a hollow compartment behind it.
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Tucked inside was a tiny, intricately crafted silver key.
“Because,” Gabriel whispered, staring at the key, “I don't think my mother was the one who raised me.”
