Free Revamped by Ada Adams

home I grew up in, but somehow more arresting. Made entirely of white stone, it resembled a miniature castle, complete with two round stone towers on each end. The windows were dramatically wide, adorned from the inside with lace curtains.
    Even though it was a remarkable piece of architecture, looking at the inn provoked an uneasy feeling within me. A painful vice clasped tightly around my chest, rendering me breathless. My eyes blurred, the world around me suddenly disappearing out of focus. Struggling to inhale, I tore my gaze away from the building, my eyes coming to rest on the gazebo beside it. My breathing slowed down as my vision cleared. As quickly as the dreadful sensation had materialized, it passed. The gazebo, with its bright white trimming and pointy gray roof, was a safe haven of sorts. A structure radiating hope, promise and even a hint of romance.
    Remembering my motive for visiting the park, I scanned the area around for the memorial plaque Hannah had told me about. The tablet lay on the ground next to the inn, its heavy gray stone framed by lush, white tulips. I made my way across the freshly watered grass, crouching down to look at the black and white engraving of a family portrait. A handsome, statuesque man sat next to a pretty, dark-haired woman. Their children, a little girl about six years of age and two young men in their early twenties, stood around them. The younger of the two sons, the silver-eyed boy, was Sebastian. His clothes were dated and his loose, midnight-black curls longer, but, without a doubt, it was him. Below the picture, carved in the marble was a commemorative inscription.
    In memory of the 1875 Hamilton House tragedy. Forever loved: William York, Mary Hamilton-York and their children Christopher, Sebastian and Grace.
    As I ran my fingers along the familiar face, I suddenly became aware of a presence in the gazebo behind me. My skin prickled as I felt a piercing gaze travel up my back. Holding my breath, I straightened, turning in the direction of the gazebo. I stifled a gasp.
    Staring directly at me was the real-life—or, rather, real-death —version of Sebastian. He sat on a bench in the centre of the gazebo, sporting a simple white t-shirt and black pants, looking like a modern version of the young man in the picture. I made my way toward him, silently joining him on the bench. Nothing I could think of to say seemed fitting of the situation.
    “I’m sorry,” I finally whispered.
    Sebastian didn’t reply. We sat side-by-side, drowning in silence for what seemed like ages. I started to doubt that he had even heard me, when, unexpectedly, he rose off the bench and began to speak, his smooth, velvety voice filled with melancholy.
    “My great-grandfather built this gazebo for his wife,” he said, running his long, lean fingers along the wooden beams of the structure. “It was a promise of a joyous future.” A slow, sad smile spread across his lips as he caressed the coarse material. It was the first time I had seen him smile, and though the gesture made him look even more handsome than I could have thought possible, the sorrow in his smile was heartbreaking.
    “Their son, my grandfather, married his wife standing on that very spot,” he said, pointing to the center of the gazebo. “My parents were also married in this gazebo.”
    Hearing Sebastian talk about his family was like listening to a completely different person than the one I met on that stormy day a week ago.
     “What a lovely tradition,” I said, my tone barely audible. I could not bring it out of a state of whisper, afraid that if I spoke any louder, my voice would betray my feelings and crack.
    Sebastian lowered himself back onto the bench beside me. We sat in stillness again; he lost in his own thoughts and me trying my best to fight the urge to ask the one question that was really on my mind. What happened in 1875?
    “Tell me about your family,” I urged instead, hoping to draw out his smile again.
    For