Chapter 19 Change

• The softness of the linen sheets made him melt into sleep after going downstairs to get something to eat at that time of the morning. The sun's rays came in through the window in front of the room and hit the bed. He stirred a little and stretched in the same way, stretched his arms and lowered them in an incomplete circle. He rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his tousled hair. He leaned on his forearms, yawned and picked up his mobile phone from the table beside the bed.
• " 8am. " He yawned again, he would be studying in two hours. He pushed the sheets away from his body without wanting to, the softness caused him to never get out of bed. He got out of bed without first looking for several seconds at the floor where two pairs of sandals lay, they weren't his, he knew that well. Anyway, he slipped his feet into them and heavily walked out of the room and down the stairs. He passed through the hallway looking at the closed doors, curiosity assailing him. He approached the first door, was able to open it and saw inside; it was even bigger than the one he slept in and the walls were in jet, the Victorian touches were the same. But, next to the window was a large frame with a picture of whom he recognised well. " Sofia Osterfield..." he mused. That woman, with her refined blue eyes, was the second daughter of the owners of the mansion, Donatho and Dayan Osterfield (the woman he saw last night in the frame of his room).
• He looked up a little and could see the picture of Mr. Donatho in that white shirt with the collar up, surrounded by a scarf with the usual white bow, a short green waistcoat. He looked straight ahead with egocentrism and pride. Hair combed neatly back and a straight posture. From what he had read about this family, they owned several hectares rich in grapes for the best wine that, to this day, is sold. "There is one missing," he said, referring to the fact that in this family there was another man who became the owner of many acres in both London and Busan in the middle of the 18th century. Of him, he had not seen any picture, at least not a definite one. She closed the bedroom door and went to the second door, about to put her hand on the handle to open it when another hand grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. He startled and looked to his side.