The mansion had never felt so silent.
Zelda stepped out of Ryan's room for the first time in hours. Or maybe it had been longer than that. She'd lost track of time in the dim swirl of grief and worry. The quiet was different now — not the usual stillness of a wealthy, walled estate, but something heavier. Like the house itself was holding its breath.
She closed the door gently behind her, careful not to disturb the soft hum of medical monitors coming from inside. Her bare feet moved silently along the marble floor. The cold nipped at her toes, but she didn't care. Her arms wrapped around her own body, a makeshift shield.
The hallway lights had been dimmed, casting soft golden halos across the walls. She moved past family portraits, their ornate frames casting tall shadows in the flickering light.
She stopped in front of one — a photo from a gala two years ago. All four brothers in sleek suits, sharp-eyed and handsome. Berrett had that mischievous grin. Ryan had the calm, quiet one. The eldest stood tall and unreadable.
She wasn't in it.
Zelda reached up and straightened the frame. Her fingertips lingered on the glass longer than necessary.
She moved on.
Her feet carried her to the west wing — a part of the house no one really used anymore. At least not since Marie's husband died. The farther she walked, the more the silence deepened, like even the walls here had forgotten how to echo sound.
The library door creaked as she pushed it open.
Dust greeted her in a shimmer of silver and gold as she stepped inside. The scent was a mix of old paper, fading leather, and something colder — like a memory that had frozen in place. The curtains were pulled open, revealing moonlight spilling across the wooden floor.
The library was beautiful. Lonely. Books lined the tall walls from floor to ceiling. She ran her fingers across a row of hardbacks as she passed them, not reading the titles, just feeling them. A quiet comfort.
In the far corner was a window seat — long and cushioned, tucked beneath tall arched glass. She climbed into it and drew her knees to her chest. Outside, the lawn glistened faintly under the moon, bathed in a kind of softness the sun could never manage. Everything felt paused.
Her head leaned against the window. The glass was cool. She let her eyes close.
For the first time in days, she didn't feel like crying. Just… existing.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. She knew that sound too well. Footsteps followed — measured, steady, controlled.
He was the only one who walked like that.
"Zelda," his voice said gently.
She turned toward him.
The eldest.
He wasn't in his usual pressed button-down and dress shoes. Tonight, he wore a hoodie and joggers — gray, soft, something almost human. His hair was slightly tousled, his jaw shadowed with a faint stubble. Less pristine. Less distant.
For a moment, Zelda forgot how to breathe.
"I didn't think anyone else came in here," she said, her voice quiet.
"I don't," he replied. "But I saw the light."
He didn't ask to come in, but he stepped further into the room anyway. Not close. He lingered by the door for a moment, then moved toward the nearest shelf and touched the spine of a book, brushing away dust with his thumb.
Zelda looked back at the window. "This place feels forgotten."
"It is," he said after a pause. "Most of the house is."
She turned to look at him. "You don't seem like the type to hide away in libraries."
His fingers stilled on the shelf.
"I used to," he said. "When I was younger."
Something shifted in her chest.
She tucked her legs closer to her body. "Why?"
He glanced at her, then away. "Because sometimes the noise wasn't worth listening to."
She understood more than she wanted to.
"Did you come here… when your dad died?" she asked.
His jaw flexed.
"I came here before that," he said. "After, I just… stopped going anywhere."
He finally looked at her fully. Not just glanced — looked. And for a breath of a second, he didn't see a child or a disruption. He saw her.
Zelda's throat tightened. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.
"For what?" he asked.
"For not knowing how to fit into this family. For being... someone you didn't ask for."
His brow furrowed, but he didn't reply right away. The silence thickened, but not painfully.
Finally, he said, "You were a child, Zelda. No one expected you to know how to fit in."
Her heart stuttered at the sound of her name in his voice. It was rare. Strange. Intimate.
"I think I'm still trying," she whispered.
He looked at her again, and this time, there was something else in his eyes — something softer, but sad. "Aren't we all?"
Zelda's lip trembled, but she smiled faintly. "You're not as cold as you pretend to be."
He stepped closer, but still kept distance between them. "Don't let it go to your head."
She raised a brow. "Was that... sarcasm?"
He didn't answer, but his expression twitched. It wasn't a smile. But it almost was.
His eyes shifted to the books behind her. "You should read something. It might help."
"You think a book can fix this?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But it can make the silence quieter."
She turned back toward the window. "You're full of surprises tonight."
He looked at her one last time, then turned to leave. "Get some sleep, Zelda."
"I will," she said softly. "Eventually."
And then he was gone — quiet as he'd come.
Zelda sat there for a long moment, staring out into the night. The window was cool against her skin, but inside her chest, something warm and trembling stirred.
She reached for a book beside her. Not to read. Just to hold it.
Because for the first time in days, she didn't feel invisible.