The small smiley face at the end of her father's diary entry had been a balm, a small island of warmth in an ocean of turbulent revelations. It gave Lysandra the push she needed to keep going, to continue deciphering this man, her grandfather, Colonel Vance, who was now revealing himself not as a simple antagonist, but as a much more complex character.
With renewed interest, she turned the pages, searching for more about that "strange and somewhat odd friendship." She found an entry a few weeks later, describing another conversation, one that took place in the Colonel's study—a space Lysandra remembered as being filled with books on military history, antique maps, and the scent of cigar tobacco and old leather. Julian's handwriting, as he transcribed this moment, was slower, more reflective, as if he were carefully recording each word so as not to forget its weight.
"October 29th. Tonight, the Colonel invited me into his study for a glass of brandy. Unheard of. I thought it would be another interrogation, but I was met with a different man. He was sitting in his large leather armchair, his gaze lost in the flame of the fireplace, and after a long silence, he told me something that I believe he had never told anyone else, perhaps not even his own wife."
Lysandra leaned closer to the diary, holding her breath.
"'You see, Julian,'" the Colonel began, his voice, according to my father's description, deeper and less sharp than usual. "'I had another love. Before Elara's mother. A love, I dare say, perhaps more intense, more… all-consuming than what I have for my wife, whom I respect and love, don't get me wrong. But what I felt for Estela… that was something else entirely. It was one of those fevers that you seem to know so much about.'"
"'However, our love was not accepted. Her family was wealthy, influential. And I… I was poor. A mere cadet with no family name or fortune, only my ambitions. Her parents saw me as an intruder, an opportunist. They despised me, and they made sure Estela knew it every single day.'"
"'The truth is, Julian,'" the Colonel continued, his voice breaking slightly for the first time, according to my father's notes, "'I want to protect my daughter. That is why I have been so hard on you. I know that what you two have is very passionate, I see it in your eyes, in the way the world disappears when you are together. And that… that terrifies me, because it reminds me too much. However, after reflecting on it, especially since that day you helped me in the garden, I believe I am making the same mistakes that her parents, Estela's parents, made. They did not allow us to have something, they cornered us, made us feel that our love was an offense.'"
"The Colonel paused, took a long drink of brandy, and stared intently at the fire. 'And she… the woman I loved so much, Estela… took her own life. One day, she simply couldn't take it anymore. In a fit of rage, of desperation against a world that wouldn't let her be happy, she was gone. And she left me here, with her memory and with the guilt, a guilt that never truly goes away.'"
Lysandra felt an icy chill run down her spine, despite the humid jungle heat. The tragedy in those words was so raw, so desolate, it dwarfed the previous revelations. Her grandfather, the man of iron, carried such a deep wound within him.
"'And I say,'" the Colonel finished, looking back at my father with an intensity that Julian described as 'raw and brutal', "'truthfully, at this point, I don't care about the businesses you get yourself into, Thorne, nor if your past is darker than a moonless night. I have already seen what intransigence does. What I don't want, the only thing I will not allow, is for you to hurt my daughter. If your love for her is true, if you are willing to make her happy and protect her, even from yourself, then you will have my respect, even if we never fully like each other. But if you hurt her… if you make her suffer as Estela suffered, then there will be no corner of this world where you can hide from me.'"
Lysandra closed her eyes, the diary resting on her lap. The rustling of the tree leaves, the buzzing of insects, the splashing of water in the lagoon… everything seemed to fade away. In her mind, there was only the image of her grandfather, a young, poor man in love, and then an older, powerful, and respected man, but forever marked by tragedy.
Now she understood. She understood his harshness, his initial distrust, his fear disguised as authoritarianism. It wasn't just classism or arrogance; it was the terror of a man who had seen how passionate love could be crushed by convention and prejudice, with fatal consequences. His hostility towards Julian hadn't been to protect his family's good name, but to protect his daughter's heart from the same fate that had destroyed the love of his life.
A deep wave of compassion for her grandfather washed over her. Her family's history was increasingly an epic of intense loves, unfathomable losses, and secrets kept under lock and key, not out of malice, but because of the immense weight of pain. And she, sitting on the shore of that enchanted lagoon, felt that each revelation brought her closer to the essence of who her parents were, and by extension, who she was herself.