Watching You Burn In Regret novel Chapter 169

Seren wandered through the first floor, taking in every detail.

Every time she stepped into this part of the house, she couldn't help but remember that painting she'd done as a teenager—the one that somehow matched this room perfectly, down to the smallest detail.

Yet, as the artist who'd once imagined it, she couldn't shake the feeling that something about this "painting" before her was off.

After making a full circuit, she finally understood what was bothering her.

The space felt as rigid and unmoving as a frozen scene, lacking any sense of life or motion.

Her gaze drifted to the white curtains—drawn tight across the tall windows. The fabric let in the light but guarded privacy, so it was nearly always closed.

She reached out and pulled the curtains aside. Instantly, the golden sunlight of late afternoon spilled into the room, wrapping everything in a hazy, amber warmth.

It was late autumn. Just outside, a ginkgo tree stood tall. Now and then, a gust of wind would send its golden fan-shaped leaves fluttering to the ground, carpeting the terrace in shimmering yellow.

At last, the painting had come alive.

Satisfied, Seren grabbed a book and curled up cross-legged on the daybed, sinking into the comfort and ease of the moment.

She had barely made it a few pages in when she heard footsteps.

Glancing up, she saw Lennon—she hadn't even noticed him leave his room. He wore a black dress shirt and matching slacks, his posture straight and composed, almost statuesque.

The soft glow of the setting sun spilled across him, lending an almost ethereal beauty, as if he'd stepped down from some old, gilded portrait.

A sudden urge struck Seren: she wanted to go back and add Lennon into that old painting of hers.

She sat there, bathed in the diffused, golden light, her eyes clear and luminous as she watched him. He remembered the first time he'd seen her—she'd looked just the same, like a gentle spirit who'd wandered, wide-eyed, into the world.

A flicker of feeling crossed Lennon's face before he spoke. "I was just about to go upstairs to find you, Mrs. Crestwell. The painting from the last auction—the one I bought—has been reframed and delivered."

He paused, as if waiting for her to catch up. "I thought you might help me decide where to hang it."

For a moment, Seren was caught off guard, then quickly realized which painting he meant—Elder Fairchild's "The Shadowed Oak."

She glanced around the living room, then pointed to the wall where the sunlight was strongest. "How about there?"

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