CHAPTER 2: THE SINGLER LEGACY

CHAPTER 2: THE SINGLER LEGACY

I

The fresh morning breeze swept across the grounds of the Singler mansion, gently rustling the treetops in the forest that surrounded the estate. This place wasn't just a house—it was a world in itself, with hidden paths among the trees, stone trails leading to forgotten corners, and structures that held stories known only to a few.

From the porch, Steven Levies observed the landscape with his usual calm expression, hands in his pockets, the weight of the years showing in a posture that had never lost its laid-back ease.

The mansion stretched before him with its familiar elegance, tall windows catching the morning sunlight, and gravel paths winding deep into the woods. It was a home built with intention—no excess, no flashy displays from someone trying to prove their power.

That's what he liked about it. That it could be so grand, and yet still feel like home.

With an unhurried step, he descended the porch stairs and crossed the garden at a relaxed pace. The soft crunch of gravel under his shoes followed him as he made his way toward the side garage.

When he reached it, he ran his fingers over the polished body of one of the motorcycles, perfectly aligned in its place. They were Charles's.

He smiled.

—Still flawless.

He wouldn't have expected anything less. Charles would never have let anyone else take care of his motorcycles. The man had the same precision with his vehicles as he did with his company.

Beside him, the large garage door stood half open, revealing a glimpse of the inside. Tools were neatly arranged on steel shelves, boxes of spare parts stacked with care, and a pair of leather gloves left behind on one of the workbenches.

For a moment, Steven could picture him there—bent over a motorcycle, adjusting something mechanical with that absolute concentration that had always defined him.

He stood there silently for a while, as if hoping to hear some echo of the past, then let out a quiet sigh and made his way back to the house.

As he stepped onto the porch again, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, carrying the unmistakable presence of someone who had been a cornerstone of this household for many years.

—Mr. Levies.

Mrs. White, her hair perfectly pinned and her expression serene, greeted him with a small nod.

—Mrs. White.

She remained in the doorway, hands clasped with the same composed patience as always, her gaze never losing that observant sparkle. She was a woman of few words, but with a natural authority no one ever dared to challenge.

—Preparations are complete, —she said plainly.

Steven raised an eyebrow.

—Does that mean there's nothing left to do?

—It means there's nothing else you can do.

Steven let out a soft chuckle. Mrs. White always managed to have the last word.

—I guess I'll have to find another way to stay busy.

She nodded politely, but her gaze followed him as he walked up the stairs calmly. The house was in order, just like always—but something was going to change that afternoon.

Inside, the sound of Mrs. White's footsteps faded into the corridors, leaving only the echo of silence before the inevitable.

Without rushing, Steven climbed the stairs to the second floor.

One of the bedroom doors was slightly ajar, and from the hallway, he could see a lump on the bed, completely still under the covers.

He sighed.

He gave the door a gentle push.

—George. Time to get up.

Nothing.

Total silence.

He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, surveying the chaos that was his son's room: clothes on the floor, books messily stacked on the desk, and a pair of sneakers flung into opposite corners.

—I'll give you until three.

The lump under the blankets stirred slightly.

—Five more minutes…

Steven smirked.

—One.

George groaned.

—Alright, alright…

Steven glanced at the clock on the wall.

—Two.

There was a beat of silence, then George let out a dramatic sigh and shifted under the blankets.

—Okay, okay.

With a final grumble, George sat up in bed, running a hand through his messy hair.

Steven watched him with satisfaction.

—So obedient, as always.

George shot him an annoyed look as he rubbed his eyes.

—Can't we just welcome them lying down?

Steven shook his head, amused.

—I doubt that would make a good impression.

George stretched with a tired groan before standing up.

—I still hope you'll accept my idea one day.

Steven ruffled his hair on the way out.

—Keep dreaming.

He strolled back down the hallway, and as he descended the stairs, he noticed a familiar figure in the garden.

Avel stood beside one of the fountains, her curly hair catching the sunlight as her gaze calmly moved across the flowerbeds.

Steven approached with his usual relaxed stride.

—Waiting for the bushes to grow in real time?

Avel turned her head and looked at him coolly.

—Just making sure everything's in place.

Steven raised an eyebrow.

—That sounds like something Mrs. White would say.

Avel gave a small, sideways smile.

—She'd do it better.

Steven let out a soft laugh.

—I won't argue with that.

They stayed quiet for a moment, watching the landscape. The forest stretched far into the distance—a reminder that the mansion didn't end at its walls, but blended with the wild around it.

Suddenly, the hum of an engine broke the calm.

From the entrance, a black limousine crept slowly along the gravel path.

Steven took a deep breath and stroked his beard slowly.

—Here we go.

George appeared in the doorway—already dressed, though his hair was still a mess.

—Finally.

The Levies stood together on the porch, watching as the vehicle approached.

After so many years, the Singler mansion was about to find its soul again.

II

The black limousine came to a smooth stop in front of the grand stone staircase. The Singler mansion—majestic yet discreet—seemed to have held its breath for years.

Steven Levies, standing on the porch with his children, descended the steps with his usual calm stride. As the rear door of the car began to open, his face lit up immediately.

Patricia had already stepped out. Her walk was confident, and the smile that appeared on her face when she saw Steven was impossible to hide.

—My favorite Latina, —he said, awkwardly mimicking her accent with a conspiratorial grin.

Patricia let out a warm laugh.

—And the only one who can get away with saying that.

They hugged tightly, with that kind of connection that time never wears down. It was a gesture of respect and affection, stronger than any words.

—The house feels different without you, —Steven said.

—And without Charles too, —she added, lowering her voice just a bit.

Steven nodded, pausing in quiet for a moment.

—That's why we're having dinner tonight. A formal one. A welcome back dinner. Chefs brought in from the city, three-course menu, candles… even the fancy tablecloth.

Patricia looked at him with amused curiosity.

—And who planned all that?

—I did. Though Mrs. White made sure I didn't mess up a single thing.

Behind them, Max was already outside, along with George and Matt. They had already greeted each other and were now walking toward the steps as if the house had never separated them.

—Ready to reclaim our console? —George asked, nudging Max lightly with his shoulder.

—Just in time to set up the teams, —Max replied, unable to hide a smile.

—Just don't put Matt on my team.

—Hey! I'm better than you! —Matt protested, trying to catch up with them.

Steven watched the three of them with a proud expression.

—They've grown so much, Patricia. Especially Max. He carries himself like Charles. And Matt… he's following the same path.

—And with the same energy, —she added fondly. —It's good to see them like this.

Farther back, Christine was already with Avel. They hadn't needed to search for each other—one simply walked toward the other, as if no time had passed at all.

—Are you going to tell me everything? —Avel asked with a subtle smile.

Christine met her gaze, serious but close.

—I will. But not here. Too many curious ears. —She gave a quick glance toward her brothers and George, already arguing about video games.

—Then later. But you're not escaping me.

From the entrance, Mrs. White was descending the stairs, as imposing as ever. Her posture was dignified, and her gaze precise.

—Mrs. Singler.

Patricia turned with a genuine expression.

—Mrs. White… it's so good to see you.

The woman looked at her with a faint smile on her lips.

—The first time you crossed that door you were seventeen… and wearing a smile that lit up the entire foyer.

Patricia chuckled softly, her eyes shining.

—And you were the first to tell me that smile wouldn't help me escape the rules.

—And yet, you never needed to break them. You were always a young woman with character… but also with respect.

Steven chimed in from the side, wearing a playful grin.

—And thanks to that, Mrs. White didn't kick me out instead.

Mrs. White raised an eyebrow, just slightly.

—Wouldn't have been such a bad idea.

—The chefs are finalizing the details. Everything will be ready for dinner at eight, —she added firmly.

—As always. Flawless, —Patricia replied.

George and Matt had already disappeared inside, joking about which console still worked. Christine and Avel climbed up the other side, speaking in low voices.

Max had lingered outside a little longer. His eyes scanned the façade of the mansion, as if trying to imprint it in his memory. The walls, the windows, the warm tone of the stone under the sun. Everything was still there, just like before… but something inside him knew it was different now.

Steven approached him calmly.

—All good, Max?

Max nodded with a smile that wasn't just polite.

—Yeah. It feels… like the house had been waiting for us.

Steven placed a hand on his shoulder.

—Maybe it always was.

And together, without another word, they stepped through the threshold.

At last, the Singler mansion felt like home again.

III

The Game Room

The game room was on the top floor of the mansion, in one of its oldest wings. The door creaked as it opened, as if it too remembered what was about to happen. The air smelled of old wood, aged plastic, and that thin layer of dust that never really went away.

Max stepped in first, followed by George, and then Matt, who walked in with bubbling excitement.

The room was spacious and cozy. It still had high ceilings with wooden beams, large windows letting in the soft afternoon light, and shelves full of board games, retro consoles, boxes marked with cousins' names, and forgotten toys. In the center, an electric train was still set on a circular track, winding around tunnels, bridges, and a small station Charles had built with his own hands.

—Dad left it so no one would touch it, —Max said, watching the train in silence. —Just to be there… part of the house.

—Does it still work? —Matt asked, kneeling beside the track.

—If it doesn't, we'll fix it. It's a classic.

The train gave a little jolt when Max switched it on. The rails responded without trouble, and the soft clatter filled the room, as if time itself had resumed.

George looked around with a nostalgic smile.

—I remember when this place was full of voices. Max and Christine would fight over the PlayStation, and Erine always ended up scolding them. Though when Max lost… no one could calm him. Not even Erine.

—Masha used to sing her own songs while she drew. And she'd say her stuffed animals were real creatures she could talk to.

—Julia never stopped moving. She'd climb the furniture, run around the room, then slip off to the garden to talk to the flowers. Said some of them listened to her.

—And Avel… she'd get furious if anyone touched her books.

Matt burst out laughing.

—And you used to steal the good pillows!

—Because you all brought them to me, —George replied, raising his hands with mock innocence.

Matt looked up at him with a mischievous grin.

—Max always wanted to win… but when he played with Anastasia, he always lost.

—Coincidence… or not? —George teased with a smirk.

Max didn't reply. He simply smiled faintly, glancing sideways at the train. His fingers paused on one of the little carriages, while a fleeting thought crossed his mind. A laugh, golden curls… and a gaze he hadn't forgotten.

—I miss those days, —he said softly. —When we were all here.

He stood up and walked toward a glass display case. Inside, a sleek modern airplane model shimmered gently under the light from the window.

He stopped to look at it.

There was something about that plane.

Not just how well it was built, or the metallic shine of its wings, but because…

—I… I've seen one like this before.

—Where? —George asked.

Max didn't answer right away. He leaned in a little, studying the details.

—I don't know. I dreamed about something like it… before we arrived.

George stepped closer, curious.

—A dream?

Max smiled, but didn't explain further.

—Probably just that. A dream.

And without saying another word, he rejoined the others.

The train kept going, as if it too remembered.

The Treehouse

The old treehouse still stood firm on its stilts, hidden among thick branches, as if the forest itself protected it from the passing of time. Charles had built it with care, and inside, the warmth with which it had been decorated could still be felt.

The interior felt like a tiny secret lounge from the early 2000s: a colorful carpet, a small TV with a DVD player, a couple of worn but cozy sofas, teen fashion magazines, a lava lamp that still worked, and even an empty cookie tin no one had dared to throw away.

Christine and Avel were sitting on one of the sofas, legs crossed, gazing out the window toward the garden.

—He brought me 101 roses for my birthday. All around the city, —Christine said. —I felt like I was in a fairy tale.

—And your first kiss?

—In Gorky Park. In the rain. It was perfect.

Avel looked at her sideways.

—And now you're here. Without Jeff. And clearly not wanting to be here.

Christine sighed, lowering her gaze.

—I didn't want to come back. Mom says it was to bring us all together again. But I know. It was because of Max.

—Because of Max?

—Because something happened to him. He changed. And Mom won't say it, but… she cried some nights.

Since then, everything has revolved around him. And of course, that means dragging all of us along.

—Did he ask for that?

—No. But that doesn't change how it makes me feel.

Avel didn't respond right away. She kept her eyes fixed on the garden.

Christine leaned back into the sofa.

—I just want things to go back to how they were. But I can't.

Avel gently took her hand.

—Maybe this place still has something for you too. Just… something different.

The Memory Garden

Patricia and Steven walked in silence along the stone path, bordered by neatly trimmed bushes and small lights that had begun to glow as evening settled in. The air already felt different—cooler, more golden, softer.

—And Charles? And Erine? —Steven asked naturally.

—They stayed in Moscow. Work… company matters, —Patricia replied.

—Everything okay?

—Yes. It's just… easier to say it's because of work.

Steven didn't press. He knew some answers weren't ready yet.

The path led them to the center of the garden, where a circle of lilacs, lavender, and white flowers bloomed. It was a quiet, intimate space. These were Irina's flowers, planted by Charles with his own hands five years ago.

—Five years already… —Steven said softly.

—And it still feels like yesterday.

—Irina had something special. You remembered her even if you barely knew her. And those of us who did… well, sometimes we still hear her laugh, don't we?

Patricia smiled, her eyes wet.

—Charles planted these flowers for her. Not as a goodbye, but as a promise.

They remained there a moment longer. Only the wind and the distant call of a bird broke the silence.

At that moment, Mrs. White appeared at the end of the path, walking with her usual firm stride.

—Mr. Levies. Mrs. Singler.

Steven turned to her.

—Is it time?

—Thirty-five minutes until dinner. But Mr. Levies has requested that everyone visit the library first.

Patricia raised an eyebrow.

—A tradition that shouldn't be lost.

—Exactly, —Steven replied.

And so, the three of them walked back toward the mansion.

The garden's light was fading slowly, but something else was beginning to glow in the air: a feeling of return, of legacy, of stories ready to awaken.

IV

—This room belonged to Grandpa Albert, —Steven said as he opened the doors. —His sacred space. Charles preferred his workshop. But here… here is a place full of history, —he added with a soft smile.

The Singler Library was more than just a reading room — it was a sanctuary of memory. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves full of leather-bound books, old documents, globes, and glass cases with strange artifacts. Tall windows let the golden light of the sunset filter in, painting the room in warm tones. Cast-iron lamps hung from the high ceiling like they floated above a past that refused to fade away.

Matt was the first to step in, his mouth slightly open, eyes shining with wonder.

—Did Grandpa Albert live here? —he asked, gazing at the portraits.

Steven smiled.

—He lived throughout the mansion, but this was his favorite room.

—I've never been in here, —Christine commented. —I don't remember it being this… grand.

—You didn't care much for it as kids, —Steven replied. —Charles always said that when you grew up, you'd understand what this room truly meant.

Before them stretched a gallery of family portraits. On the first wall, framed with elegance, were the founders: John Singler and Angelique. John, with a firm gaze, wore simple work clothes. Angelique, a Black woman, held a bouquet of wildflowers. Her posture was dignified and serene, and her expression carried quiet wisdom.

—Grandma Angelique was Black? —Matt asked, curious.

Patricia knelt beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

—We never met her either, but Grandpa Albert used to say she was one of the strongest and smartest women to ever exist.

You come from different stories, my love. You're the perfect mix.

—Charles always said his father talked about Angelique like he could still hear her in his thoughts, —Steven added.

Matt nodded calmly.

—Then she must be special.

—Very much so, —Steven agreed.

A little further along, another portrait showed the entire family: Albert and Ireland in the center, with their children. Ireland stood tall and graceful, holding little Cynthia's hand. Beside her, Roland —her twin brother— looked barely older than a baby. Both wore light-colored clothes, radiating the innocence of early childhood. Further back, Charles and Magnus were already teenagers. Charles, more serious, stood near his father with a focused expression. Magnus, with a more carefree air and a relaxed smile, had his head tilted slightly toward Ireland, showing a clear closeness to his mother.

—And that map? —Max asked, stepping closer to the painting.

—The island, —Steven replied, crossing his arms. —Years later, Albert and his wife acquired it. In the center stood an old abandoned castle. No one really knew much about its origin —only that it had been built centuries ago by a man who wanted to live in solitude.

—Albert saw potential in it. He transformed it into something extraordinary.

—Singler Academy, —Christine whispered.

—Exactly, —Steven nodded. —A one-of-a-kind school. Technological, modern, expensive… but with history in every corner. Today, it's considered one of the best in the world.

The kids remained quiet, as if suddenly grasping where they were truly heading.

—And the camp? —Matt asked.

—That was Albert's idea too, —Steven explained. —A place for students to get to know the island in a different way, before starting school.

—Singler Camp is in the area closest to the lake, separate from the Academy, but connected by trails and ferries. It's a unique experience, especially for first-years… or for those looking for a second chance. And of course, some go simply by choice.

At that moment, they passed another, more recent portrait.

It was Charles as an adult, with his family. Charles had a serious and focused expression. Patrice smiled warmly beside him, and their children stood nearby. Max had a calm, still somewhat boyish face, standing firmly. Matt held an action figure with pride, striking a pose that made him seem braver than he actually was. Christine looked happy, wearing an elegant dress and a sweet expression. To the side, leaning against a bookshelf, stood Erine —the eldest— with a serene look, holding a book in her hands.

In the background of the portrait, atop a wooden display case, rested a dark sword with an old, powerful-looking hilt.

—And that? —George asked.

Steven didn't answer right away. He simply looked at the weapon.

—An important piece. Like many things in this family… it has a story to be told in due time.

A little further on, another painting showed Magnus with Irina —the elegant Russian woman with her blond hair tied back— and a small girl: Anastasia. The portrait seemed to capture a quiet moment. Irina's gaze was strong but serene. Anastasia, with golden curls, had a curious, sideways smile.

—The strongest Russian woman I ever met, —Patricia whispered fondly. —Always so protective… and with a huge heart.

Max lingered in front of that portrait longer than the others. He didn't say a word, but lowered his gaze, lost in a mix of nostalgia and deep thought.

George stepped up beside him with a barely-contained grin.

—Remember how you could never beat her at chess?

—That doesn't count, —Max said, rolling his eyes. —I let her win… so she wouldn't feel bad.

George chuckled softly.

—Yeah, sure.

Christine glanced at the portrait sideways, arms crossed. Avel, walking beside her, said nothing, but her gaze went straight to Anastasia.

—Special, isn't she? —George murmured.

—Very, —Max replied under his breath.

Just then, from the far end of the room, the figure of Mrs. White appeared.

—Excuse the interruption, Mr. Levies, —she said politely. —Dinner is served.

Steven nodded.

—Thank you, Mrs. White. One more minute.

Max turned once more to the portrait of Albert, as if something within him had suddenly awakened.

It wasn't magic.

It was something older, deeper —as if his story was only just beginning.

—Let's go, —Steven said, guiding them to the door. —It's time to close this chapter… and begin the next.

V

The main dining room of the Singler mansion was spacious, majestic, and warm. The light of the sunset bathed the tall windows, reflecting off the modern chandeliers that hung from a ceiling adorned with classic moldings. The long dark wood table was filled with food: steaming dishes, fresh fruit, artisanal bread, pitchers of juice, and empty glasses waiting to be filled. Even though no one was dressed formally, everything looked lovingly and carefully prepared — as if they were expecting very special guests.

Mrs. White moved silently between the chairs, placing small plates and adjusting the napkins. Patricia took her seat at the end of the table, as tradition dictated, leaving Charles's seat empty beside her.

The kids settled in slowly. Matt couldn't hide his excitement at the sight of the desserts. George was already quietly arguing with him over the last cheese empanada. Max, though calmer, looked completely at ease in the setting. Christine, arms crossed, seemed detached from the cheerful mood, but sat next to Avel without complaint.

Steven was the last to sit down. He cleared his throat with a wide smile and raised his glass of water slightly.

—Welcome home again.

Everyone turned their attention to him.

—This dinner is special. Not just because I'm happy to have you all here, but because what's coming next is even more important.

You're all about to begin a new chapter… the Singler summer camp.

Max looked at him curiously.

—So it's confirmed we're going?

—Yes. It's a direct invitation from your grandmother, —Steven replied. —Ireland believes this summer will be essential for you. Just like it was for many of us before.

—You went too? —Matt asked.

—I went several times, —Steven answered with a nostalgic smile. —I always loved the camp… that's where I met Charles.

A few chuckles were heard around the table. Patricia spoke next, her voice soft.

—Yes. I went too. Your father… and your sister Erine. We all lived that experience when we were teenagers.

Matt adjusted himself in his chair.

—And was it fun for you?

Patrice nodded with a warm smile.

—It was unforgettable. Each of us went through something different, but it was always the beginning of something important.

George, with his mouth already half full, looked up.

—Get ready… the camp is amazing. Though they make you wake up earlier than anyone ever wants.

Max laughed quietly under his breath.

—So, it's not going to be as easy as I thought.

—Nothing worthwhile ever is, —Steven added, winking.

Matt, still holding a piece of bread, mumbled:

—Are there wolves?

Christine scoffed.

—It's a camp, not a horror movie.

—You never know, —George said in a mysterious tone.

—What I do know, —Steven said, raising his voice just a bit, —is that you'll be in a place that bears the name of a man who changed the course of our family.

And I don't just mean the school. I mean the legacy.

Everyone went quiet. Even Christine lowered her gaze, thoughtful.

—You're going to live in something your grandparents created.

You'll walk the same halls, see the same walls. And maybe, one day, you'll understand why that means so much.

Dinner continued in a calmer atmosphere, filled with soft laughter, shared memories, and glances that spoke of the past… and of what was still to come.

VI

Night had already fallen over the Singler mansion. The day's warmth still lingered softly in the air — typical of a summer evening — but the shadows had grown longer, and the golden light from inside stood in contrast to the darkness covering the garden. After dinner, George had suggested heading to the boathouse near the lake, "to see if they still float," he joked, flashing that grin of his that blended mischief with challenge.

Max, Christine, and the others went out laughing, crossing the garden beneath the distant gaze of the stars. Matt followed behind, as always, a little slower… though this time, it wasn't out of laziness.

His steps drifted, as if guided by a feeling he didn't quite understand. Instead of following the others toward the lake, he turned toward the west wing of the mansion — where the walls felt colder, the hallways more silent, and the memories seemed to sleep.

At the end of the corridor, a half-open door called to him like a whisper.

It was a room he didn't remember ever seeing before. Some sort of old storage space, with no modern lights or decoration. The air was dense, heavy with dust, and it smelled of sealed wood. Inside were old boxes, shelves full of worn-out books, broken chairs under gray covers… and at the far end, a smaller door, sealed with an old padlock — no key in sight.

Matt stepped closer, drawn by a mix of fear and excitement. As he circled around a pile of cloth, something caught his attention — a glimmer in the shadows. He crouched down.

It was a ring.

Small, made of dark metal, with a four-leaf clover engraved at the center. It didn't look like a piece of jewelry, or a keepsake. But something about it made it feel… different. As he picked it up, a subtle tingling ran through his fingers.

—Young Matt?

The voice made him turn around instantly.

Mrs. White was standing at the entrance, tall and composed, as if she had always known where to find him.

—What are you doing here?

Matt instinctively slipped the ring into his pocket.

—I… I just saw the door open. I was exploring.

Mrs. White stepped forward slowly, her eyes scanning the room with quiet weariness.

—This wing only holds old things. Forgotten memories. It's no place to wander in the dark.

—I wasn't going to stay, —Matt said, lowering his gaze. —I was just heading back to the others.

She nodded softly.

—Then go. They're waiting for you.

Matt obeyed without protest. He closed the door behind him and returned to the lit hallway, walking slowly. In his pocket, the ring was still there. It wasn't heavy — and yet it felt like he was carrying more than just metal.

He didn't know why… but he was sure of one thing:

That ring wasn't supposed to be found — and yet somehow, it had been waiting for him all along.