CHAPTER 86: BUCKET LIST

Sun light drifted softly through the lace curtains, spilling a gentle warmth over the parlor’s faded rug and the old piano standing quietly in the corner.

Dust motes floated in the sunbeams like slow-falling snow. The house was silent except for the distant hum of a grandfather clock marking the passing seconds.

Rachel moved quietly through the room, her steps soft against the wooden floor. She carried a small tray with tea and a folded napkin, intending to set it down for Mr. Camden when he woke since he had fallen asleep after taking his medications.

He had been resting more lately, though he insisted he was fine — "just tired," he always said, in that dignified, slightly amused tone that made her smile no matter what.

She set the tray down on a nearby table and looked toward his study. The door was ajar, a thin crack of light slipping through. He must have left it open after reading. She thought with a soft chuckle.

She hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t really her place to go in there especially since he was sleeping. But the thought of exploring it without the usual thought of going there to work, made her feet move before her mind could stop them.

She pushed the door open gently.

The study smelled faintly of old books and cedar polish. Shelves lined with different books, and poetry. On the desk, beneath a soft pool of sunlight, sat an open notebook, a fountain pen, and a half-drunk cup of tea that had gone cold.

Rachel smiled faintly. "You forgot your tea again," she murmured, as if speaking to him even though he was asleep down the hall.

She began straightening the desk — stacking papers, capping the pen, moving the empty cup to one side. Her fingers brushed over a small leather-bound notebook lying partially hidden beneath a book. It looked older, its edges worn and corners bent as though it had been opened many times.

She wasn’t snooping, not really. She told herself she just wanted to tidy it. But when she picked it up, it fell open — and her eyes caught the title written in Mr. Camden’s careful, slanted handwriting.

"Things I Still Want to Do."

Rachel froze as she read it. Was this what she thought it was?

Her gaze dropped to the list beneath the title. The ink had faded slightly, the strokes uneven — written by a hand that had grown frailer, but the heart behind it was alive in every word.

1. Visit the lake again.

2. Watch the sunrise without falling asleep halfway.

3. Play the piano — just once more or maybe twice.

4. Write a letter to Eleanor.

5. Laugh until my chest hurts.

6. Plant something that’ll outlive me.

7. Go out on a date again.

Rachel swallowed, her heart tightening. She read the list again, slower this time. There was a tenderness to it — something both heartbreaking and beautiful.

This wasn’t just a list. It was a quiet confession.

Her thumb lingered on the second to the last line, "Plant something that’ll outlive me." She could almost hear his voice as he might have said it — dryly amused, yet soft around the edges, full of meaning he’d never admit aloud.

She closed the book gently and pressed it to her chest.

For a long moment, she just stood there, looking out the window where the sun stretched over the garden. She thought of the man resting in his room down the hall — his gray hair, his kind eyes, the way he tried to hide his pain with jokes and dignity. He was more than her employer now.

But she couldn’t name what he was becoming.

Rachel shook her head quickly, as if the thought itself was something she had to chase away. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself silently. You’re just helping a sick old man live a little better. That’s all this is.

Still, the image of that list lingered. And the one that caught her the most — "Play the piano again."

So he could play the piano. Asked thought it was probably his son’s and he’d just left it there to remember him. But now, seeing the list, she knew it wasn’t that.

Her gaze drifted to the old piano in the parlor, silent and untouched, its keys surely out of tune after so many quiet years. She had never heard him play, though she’d seen the way he sometimes looked at it — a wistful glance, gone in a second, like a man passing by an old photograph he didn’t dare touch.

Rachel bit her lip.

Maybe... maybe she could make him play again. She’d try to make him play it again.

Not because it would mean anything to her, of course. But because he deserved it — because someone had to remind him that life wasn’t over yet.

"Yes," she whispered to herself, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That’s what I’ll do."

She’d find a way. She told herself.

By the time Mr. Camden woke later, Rachel had already moved the piano stool closer to the window and wiped the keys with a soft cloth. She’d even placed a small vase of wildflowers on top, as though to make the instrument feel alive again.

She heard the sound of his footsteps behind her and turned to see him leaning slightly on his cane, his gray eyes bright despite the sleep still clinging to them.

"I see you’re awake," she said with a small grin. "How are you feeling?"

"Old," he replied with a dry chuckle. "But that’s hardly news, is it?"

Rachel laughed softly. "Well, old or not, you’re still up before lunch, so that’s impressive."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you, Miss Rachel, are standing suspiciously close to my piano. Should I be concerned?"

Her eyes twinkled. "Maybe."

He stepped closer, his gaze following hers to the piano. "Haven’t touched that thing in years," he murmured, almost to himself.

Rachel tilted her head, feigning casualness. "Then maybe it’s time to change that."

Mr. Camden looked at her with a faintly amused disbelief. "Don’t—don’t tell me you want me to play?"

"I think you should," she said simply. "It’s good for the soul, you know?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "The soul perhaps. The hands, however, may disagree."

"Then we’ll go gently," she said, nudging the stool a little toward him. "Just one song. To thank me for taking good care of you, please?"

He sighed, his mouth curving into a reluctant smile. "You’re persistent, aren’t you?"

"I’ve been told it’s my best quality," she replied lightly.

He looked at her for a long moment — the kind of look that felt like it saw more than she was saying. Then, slowly, he sat down. His fingers hovered above the keys, trembling slightly.

Rachel watched silently, her heart thudding for reasons she didn’t want to name.

Then, softly, and tentatively, he pressed a key. A low, broken note filled the air. He tried another, then another. A melody began to form, hesitant at first, then smoother, flowing from memory more than strength.

Rachel stood near the window, watching him. The sunlight touched his profile, casting gold on his silver hair. His expression was... peaceful. Young, even.

The music filled the room like a whisper of something sacred — something that had waited years to breathe again.

When he finished, the silence that followed felt alive.

Rachel clapped quietly, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. "See? You’ve still got it."

He looked up at her, and there was something soft, something deeply grateful in his gaze. "You’re trouble, Miss Rachel."

She laughed. "Good trouble, I hope."

"The very worst kind," he said, and she swore there was a spark in his eyes she hadn’t seen before.

She turned away, hiding the warmth creeping up her neck. "Well," she said briskly, "you should rest now. That’s enough excitement for one morning."

But he didn’t move. He just watched her, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You did all this, didn’t you?"

She blinked. "Did all what?"

"The flowers. The cleaning. The insistence." His voice gentled. "You planned this."

Rachel’s heart stuttered. "I— I just thought you might enjoy it. You looked like someone who missed it. I’ve seen the way you look at it."

He studied her face for a moment longer, and then said softly, "Thank you."

She swallowed, unable to hold his gaze. "Don’t thank me. I’m just doing my job."

"Right," he said, though his tone held a faint amusement. "Of course."

A comfortable silence settled over them.

"I should get your lunch now," she said,breaking the silence.

As she walked out of room, Rachel’s hands trembled slightly. She told herself it was just because she was tired. Because the morning had been long.

Not because of the way he’d looked at her while playing. Not because her chest felt too warm, too full. Just because she was helping. That was all. Nothing more.