The day Vivian Sinclair returned to Torval, heavy snow began to fall from the sky.
The snowflakes quietly buried the airport signs, and the cold wind swept in.
She wore a long black trench coat, standing by the window in the waiting hall.
"Vivian, you've landed?"
"Can't get a cab?"
"It's fine, I've asked someone to pick you up."
As soon as the call ended, she shoved her right hand back into her coat pocket.
Five years since she last came back—stepping into this city again, she felt it had become a little unfamiliar.
About ten minutes later, her phone rang again.
She struggled to fish the phone out of her pocket. On the caller ID, two words flashed: "Uncle."
In the end, she still picked up, bringing the phone to her ear.
"I'm waiting for you at Exit 9."
Curtis Prescott's voice came from the receiver—it was so familiar that her heart trembled.
Vivian's nose stung suddenly, her eyes turning hot.
Dragging her suitcase, she walked quickly toward Gate 8. Instantly, she spotted a man standing beside a Bentley, dressed in a crisp suit, standing straight in the snow.
He was very tall, with a cool and reserved presence. Even in a crowd, he stood out effortlessly.
No matter where he was, Curtis Prescott was always someone impossible to ignore.
Vivian pressed her dry lips together and said, "Uncle."
Curtis reached for her suitcase, his gaze lingering on her face just a moment: "Wearing so little clothes?"
She instinctively tugged her coat collar, lowered her head, and replied, "Left in a hurry, didn't check the weather."
This time she'd come back because her grandmother had passed. She had to rush home for the funeral.
She'd bought her ticket at midnight, a flight at four in the morning, and had slept barely two hours.
She'd only managed to hastily shove a few items into her luggage, even forgot to bring a thicker jacket.
"Get in," he said.
He didn't ask any more, just turned and opened the passenger door for her.
She hesitated for a second, but finally bent down and got in.
Inside, the car was almost stiflingly warm, hot air steadily blowing from the vents.
Curtis steered the wheel, keeping an eye on her in the rearview mirror.
He said nothing, but when they stopped at a red light, he spoke lightly: "There's a box of warmers in the back. Take one if you want."
"Those thin clothes—once you're out, it'll be even colder."
Vivian's fingers curled slightly.
She parted her lips, but the words died in her throat.
Unbuckling her seatbelt, she turned to reach for the box in back.
A soft 'click'—the lid popped open.
She stretched out her hand but couldn't quite reach; she had to slide over a bit.
Just as her fingers touched something deep in the box, she accidentally nudged his shoulder with her head.
Her hair brushed against his black suit, a few strands lifted by static; a faint woody scent with a coolness drifted past her nose, making her breath catch.
"Didn't get it yet?"
She quickly snapped her hand back, leaning away toward the car door.
"Got it."
With a soft snap, the box closed again. She drew her hand back hurriedly.
Curtis watched her face for a fleeting moment.
Five years gone—this girl had really changed.
As a child, she loved chasing after him, always calling, "Brother." The family would keep correcting her—it was "Uncle."
Back then, she was seven or eight, and Curtis was just starting college.
Nine years apart, but she insisted on calling him brother.
"As long as you found it," he said.
Vivian said nothing more, just turned to the window, watching flakes of snow brush past the glass.
Torval was cold and empty everywhere; snow coming down from above, a thick layer already blanketing the ground.
The car crawled down the road, tires slipping, progress painfully slow.
At the entrance to the mourning hall, Lynn Shea wore a black dress, a white flower pinned to her chest. Her eyes were red and swollen—evidence of a long time crying.
She saw Vivian step out of the car, instantly walked up and took her hand, staring at her for a few seconds. "How did you become so thin?" she murmured, voice gentle.
"Mom…"
The moment Vivian spoke, her voice trembled, and her eyes reddened at once.
Five years ago, dragging her suitcase as she left the old Prescott Family house, she'd made a vow with a cold face—
In this life, she'd never come back.
Back then, she'd been full of resentment and anger.
But now, standing here again, seeing Lynn Shea's gentle face, she felt something press down heavily against her heart.
"Lynn."
Just then, a man's voice sounded.
Curtis Prescott got out from the driver's seat, calling out respectfully.
Lynn turned toward him, gratitude flickering in her eyes.
"You've gone to so much trouble, Curtis."
She paused, her tone warm with thanks. "Vivian just got back—I really didn't have anyone to send for her. I'm so grateful you heard me on the phone and volunteered. Otherwise, I truly wouldn't have known what to do."
Today was the seventh day after the old lady's passing—the day of the funeral.
The sky was gray and gloomy, wind howling, snow flying thick and fast.
All the drivers were out fetching relatives of status, and there weren't any spare cars or hands to send to the airport.
She'd been frantic, not knowing what to do, when Curtis happened to be passing by and quietly took over the task without complaint.
"It's too cold outside, and the wind's strong. You should go in first,"
Lynn glanced around, then spoke softly to Vivian.
"Your brothers are inside, waiting. They've been keeping vigil at the hall, afraid Grandmother would feel alone."
Vivian nodded, her lips moving, but nothing came out.
Curtis murmured his assent, didn't linger, and turned toward the mourning hall.
Once he had left, Lynn Shea drew Vivian aside by the arm.
The wind was lighter there, the crowd thinner.
Only then did she lower her voice, speaking with concern: "You haven't quit your job… have you?"
"Not yet," Vivian replied, eyes dropping.
She was a lawyer, having only a couple of years ago graduated from a top law school abroad.
On account of her stellar grades and impressive internships, she'd smoothly joined a world-renowned firm.
For the past two years, she'd thrown herself into work, endured endless all-nighters, at last gaining a foothold in that fiercely competitive environment.
"Haven't I always told you?"
Lynn sighed, creasing her brow.
"You should quit and come home. Now your grandmother is gone, there's no one in the Prescott Family to restrain you. If you come back, at least I'll have something to hold on to…"
Lynn Shea was on her second marriage. In her youth, on the strength of her gentle looks and graceful temperament, she'd married into the much-envied Prescott Family.
But her own family was powerless—she'd had no support and was held at a disadvantage everywhere.
Her two stepchildren had always kept their distance out of politeness.
Her mother-in-law met her with coldness, nitpicking every little thing—even her clothes and food were scrutinized.
She could only endure, trying to please, carefully maintaining the façade of harmony.
All these years, she'd lived both stifled and exhausted.
Her only reason to grit her teeth and carry on was her own daughter, Vivian.
She wanted her daughter to have a bright future, to soar high and far away.
And yet, she longed for her to come home, to stay by her side.
Now that her mother-in-law was gone, the atmosphere in the house finally relaxed a little.
Both stepchildren had their own lives, no longer keeping a constant watch on her.