Twisted Ties of Love (Izabella Salotti and Brett) novel Chapter 590

"Home, Dad. This is home," Emily would explain at least three times a day, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "I'm your daughter, Celeste, and this is Boris, your son."

It was only when she mentioned their names that Casey would snap back to a semblance of recognition.

Pulling out her smartphone, Emily would scroll through the gallery and flash their family portrait before Casey's eyes, "Look, Dad, this is us—your family."

Casey's gaze would fix on the image of Izabella, his wife, and a faint whisper would escape his lips, "Bella..."

His memory was a patchwork quilt—sometimes whole, sometimes frayed. Emily's gentle prompt would stitch together fragments of recollection.

Noticing it was still early, Emily suggested Casey get some more rest in his room.

Casey refused, not from lack of fatigue, but from an insomnia that sharpened his mind at night. Thoughts of Izabella, gone at sixty-seven, leaving him alone, would carve deep hollows of pain, rendering sleep elusive.

Casey cradled Izabella's photograph, tracing her features with a familiarity born of decades. It was a gesture he'd made countless times when she was alive, and now, it was a ritual that kept her close, if only in memory.

How could he not yearn for Izabella, his companion of forty years, now forever out of reach?

On New Year's Eve, while a variety show hummed unwatched on television, Casey lit every lamp in the house, one by one, illuminating the quiet space. Dinner would be sweet pie, a symbol of unity and perfection.

From the upstairs window, Casey watched the distant flicker of lights. Emily brought him a bowl of the sweet pie, reminding him to eat.

The filling wasn't sweet enough. It didn't suit Izabella's taste. Casey opened the drawer by his bed, took out a handful of sugar cubes, and dropped them into the bowl until they dissolved.

Tasting it again, he found the sweetness just right. Lifting the bowl, he murmured, "Bella, the pie is sweet now. Try some..."

He turned, only to remember—his sweet-toothed Izabella had passed away two weeks prior.

With a heavy heart, Casey set the bowl down, his eyes brimming with tears that fell into the pie, stirring faint ripples in the once perfect dessert.

This New Year's Eve was the loneliest he'd ever experienced, devoid of vibrant reds, even the fireworks overhead seemed to have lost their color. Only the bright lights within the house reached out into the darkness.

Bella, I've left the lights on for you. I know you're afraid of the dark. Follow the light, remember to come home.

...

Casey, battling Alzheimer's, had a penchant for wandering. One moment of inattention and he would vanish, leaving his children and the household staff searching everywhere.

Sometimes he'd be found at the orphanage, other times by the riverbank, or at the amusement park—places Izabella loved, tracing every trace of her he could find.

Today was supposed to be a routine checkup at the hospital, but halfway there, Casey slipped away again. Age hadn't dulled his wits when it came to escape.

Where had Casey gone?

He ended up at the cemetery, sitting against Izabella's headstone with a stick of candied fruit in his hand.

Izabella, always smiling, had insisted on choosing her own memorial photograph—a black and white image that captured her sweet, tender smile.

As the sun rose and set, as stars danced across the sky, nothing compared to the beauty of her smile. To have accompanied her from beginning to end was his life's greatest fortune.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify