"Good morning, Mr. Gotham," Vihaan greeted, his voice stiff with formality, the words tasting strange on his tongue after years of first-name familiarity.
Gotham's short, dry laugh cut through the heavy silence, unexpected in the air between them. "Are you going to make this old man stand out in the rain, Vihaan?" he asked, one silver eyebrow arching, though his tone held none of its usual bite.
Vihaan flushed, immediately stepping aside. "Sorry, sir. Please, come in."
As Gotham crossed the threshold, a soft rustle came from the kitchen. Vihaan's wife peered through the doorway, her eyes widening in shock as she recognized their visitor.
"Papa?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief threading through the word.
Gotham's stern expression softened—just a fraction—as she rushed forward, embracing him tightly. He patted her back once, a rare gesture of affection from a man accustomed to cloaking himself in detachment.
"I'll—I'll make some coffee," she murmured, pulling away quickly, as if embarrassed by her sudden emotion. She retreated to the kitchen.
The older man settled onto the sofa with the quiet authority of someone who came to visit his daughter, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a crisp, cream-colored envelope, extending it to Vihaan.
"Open it," his voice calm but firm.
Vihaan took it, his fingers brushing against the thick, cover. Its weight felt profound, like the hush before a verdict. He hesitated, then slid his thumb beneath the flap, breaking the seal with a soft tear. And with one glance, Vihaan's breath caught in his throat as he skimmed through it.
Just then, Vihaan's wife emerged from the kitchen, a questioning look on her face that turned to alarm as she saw the hospital report. Before he could process what he'd read, she snatched the envelope from him. She pulled out the medical report, her eyes quickly scanning the damning words. "Papa…?" she whispered, the paper crinkling in her grip.
Gotham exhaled slowly, the sound like wind rustling through dry leaves. "The doctors say I have maybe six months. A year if I'm lucky." His voice remained calm, yet his fingers betrayed him, tapping an uneven rhythm on his knee. "I've resigned as Summit's chairman, effective immediately."
"The company will be yours," Gotham continued, his gaze on his daughter. "If you want it. If not..." He shrugged, the gesture strangely liberating. "Let it go down. I don't care anymore."
His daughter let out a wounded sound, tears spilling down her cheeks. Gotham reached out hesitantly, wiping one away with his thumb—a gesture so tender it shattered the remaining tension in the room.
"I'm tired," he admitted, his voice breaking. "Tired of boardrooms and takeovers. I just want..." His gaze drifted towards the scenery outside. "I want to sit in the garden. Enjoy the world's scenery. Maybe..." His breath hitched. "Maybe hold my grandchild before I go."
The silence that followed was deafening. Vihaan watched as his wife's face melting into deep sadness because of the news. Her father, Gotham, reached out and gently pulled her into his arms, holding her close. He then softly kissed her on the forehead, a feather-light touch, a seal of comfort and finality.
Finally, Gotham straightened. "I shall leave now. You don't have to see me off." He then turned his gaze, sharply onto Vihaan. "Can I have a moment of your time?" he stated, more a request than a question.
"Let's talk while we walk," Gotham began, already turning towards the door. "We can continue this outside."
Vihaan opened the umbrella, holding it over Gotham as they walked slowly down the path. The hills loomed in the distance, their outlines blurred by mist, a silent audience to the conversation about to unfold.
Gotham's steps were measured, his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "You know," Gotham began, his voice low, "I wasn't always this man."
"It was 1973," Gotham continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips, softening the lines carved by years of relentless ambition. "I was twenty-four, a cocky young man working odd jobs in a coastal town—far from the city, far from anything that mattered to the world. Then one evening, I saw her at the pier, sketching the sunset."
He stopped walking, his eyes distant, as if the hills had transformed into that long-ago shore. "She was sitting on a crate, her hair dark as the sea at night, blowing loose in the wind, capturing the way the light fractured on the waves. I'd never seen anyone so... alive. Not loud or showy, just—present, like the world was hers to hold."
Gotham's voice was softer now, each word chosen with care, as if he were watching Eleanor now. "I didn't approach her that night," Gotham admitted, resuming his slow pace. Days drifted by, each one a quiet turning of a page. "One day, a storm rolled in, sudden and fierce. Everyone scattered, but she stayed, shielding her sketchbook under her coat, laughing as the rain soaked her through. I ran over with an old tarp, held it over her like some fool knight. She looked at me, those gray eyes sharp as the storm itself, and said, 'You're ruining my view.'"
"I was hooked right then and there," Gotham confessed, a wistful note in his voice. "She wasn't impressed by grand gestures or empty charm; she saw through all that. But she let me walk her home, and we talked. About art, about the sea, about dreams we didn't even know we harbored." He paused, his fingers brushing the edge of his cufflink, a familiar, unconscious habit. "I was just a drifter with grease on my hands, but she made me want to be more."
"We spent that summer together, stealing moments," he continued, a slight chuckle escaping him. "She'd tease me for drinking my coffee sweet. By fall, I knew I'd marry her, even if I had nothing to offer but a promise. She said yes anyway, on that same pier, with the tide roaring and the stars bright above us."
To be continued..... 🙂🤗