The car rolled up the long, winding driveway that cut through the estate like a dark ribbon. Overhead, the sky had deepened into a soft velvet blue, the first stars pricking through the twilight.
Mr. Linton stirred in his seat as the familiar outlines of home rose before him. Tall iron gates had swung open at Eric's approach, and now the grand old house loomed ahead, its stone façade bathed in golden light. The windows were lit warmly, and somewhere from within, the faint strains of piano music drifted into the night air — one of the staff must have left it playing for him.
The gravel crunched under the tires as Eric pulled up at the main entrance. He stepped out quickly and opened the door for Mr. Linton.
For a moment, Mr. Linton didn't move. He sat there, breathing in the cool, clean air of his own land. The house before him was not just a house — it was a fortress, a monument, a history.
Slowly, he swung his legs out and took Eric's offered arm.
"I'll walk," he said, brushing off Eric's stronger grip. His voice, though low, carried a stubborn edge.
Eric said nothing. He merely stayed close, ready to catch him if needed.
Step by step, Mr. Linton climbed the shallow stone steps. His polished shoes tapped lightly against the old stones, each movement deliberate and firm.
At the door, the butler — a tall, thin man named Wilkins — was already waiting, his gloved hands clasped neatly before him.
"Welcome home, sir," Wilkins said with a respectful bow.
Mr. Linton gave a small nod and crossed the threshold. The scent of oak, old books, and clean linen embraced him at once — a far cry from the sterile bite of hospital antiseptic.
He paused in the entrance hall, looking around. The grand staircase curved upward in a wide arc, the chandeliers above gleaming softly. Everything was in its place, as it should be. His world — untouched, waiting.
Eric closed the door behind them, locking out the night.
"Shall I prepare your room, sir?" Wilkins asked quietly.
Mr. Linton turned his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might have been a smile.
"No," he said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the hall. "I am not going to bed yet."
Wilkins bowed again. "Very good, sir. Where shall I have prepared?"
"The drawing room," Mr. Linton said after a pause. "Open the windows. I want to breathe."
"At once, sir."
Wilkins moved away with silent efficiency.
Eric glanced at Mr. Linton uncertainly. "Sir, are you sure? You need rest—"
Mr. Linton cut him off with a slight gesture.
"I need air, Eric. Not a bed."
Together, they walked toward the drawing room — a vast space paneled in dark wood, with deep leather chairs arranged around a roaring fireplace. Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, the heavy curtains already drawn back.
Wilkins had opened the windows just enough to let the evening breeze whisper through.
Mr. Linton moved to a chair near the fire and lowered himself into it slowly. He rested his cane — one he had insisted on using rather than a wheelchair — against the armrest.
For a moment, he simply sat there, gazing into the fire, his face illuminated by the shifting orange glow.
Eric stood nearby, unsure whether to speak.
Finally, Mr. Linton broke the silence.
"Do you know what this house is, Eric?" he asked, his voice low.
Eric hesitated. "Your home, sir?"
Mr. Linton chuckled, a dry sound. "More than that. This house... is me."
Eric tilted his head slightly.
"My father built it stone by stone," Mr. Linton went on, his eyes distant. "Before him, my grandfather farmed the land where it now stands. And me? I turned it into something even greater. Every room, every brick, every corner — it carries my mark."
He leaned back, the firelight catching the lines of his face.
"When I was lying in that hospital bed, Eric," he said quietly, "I realized something. I was nothing there. Just a sick old man lying among other sick old men. But here..." He lifted a hand, gesturing broadly. "Here, I am Linton Getty. Here, my blood is in the walls. My will is in the floors. No antiseptic stink can touch me here."
Eric swallowed and nodded slowly.
"I will heal," Mr. Linton said. "But not because some doctor pokes me with needles. I will heal because I am home. Because I am surrounded by my victories, my battles, my life."
Outside, a soft breeze stirred the trees. Somewhere in the dark, an owl called once, mournfully.
Eric moved closer. "Would you like me to bring you something, sir? A drink? Some food?"
Mr. Linton considered it, then shook his head.
"No. Let me sit a while," he said. "Let the house do its work."
Eric nodded. He stepped back into the shadows of the room, standing guard silently as Mr. Linton sat there, breathing deeply, his gaze locked on the flames.
For a long while, no one spoke. The fire crackled. The air moved.
And slowly, very slowly, the tiredness in Mr. Linton's body seemed to ease — not in the way of a man healed by medicine, but in the way of a king returning to his throne.
Home.
The only cure he trusted.