Zelda was beginning to memorize the sound of silence.
Not the comfortable kind — the kind that stretched between loved ones like a warm blanket — but the sort that echoed. Heavy. Tense. As if the mansion itself was holding its breath.
Ryan was recovering slowly. The color had started returning to his cheeks, and he could sit up for longer stretches now, though the doctors said he still needed plenty of rest. Zelda stayed by his side when she could, reading aloud from the fantasy books he liked, letting her voice fill the room while his mind wandered.
It was peaceful. At least here.
But everywhere else, something had shifted.
Lucien had started appearing more. Not often, but enough to be felt — a brief shadow at the end of a hallway, a silent figure passing the doorway during dinner, a flicker of motion in a reflection before disappearing.
He hadn't spoken to her since the day Ryan woke up.
Not a word. Not even a look.
And yet, she could feel his presence in the smallest things: the rearranged books in the library, the creak on the third stair that hadn't groaned in years, the faint scent of cedar and storm when the wind carried through the upstairs corridor.
She found herself noticing more than she wanted to.
The way he carried himself — shoulders always tight, like he was bracing for something. The precision in his gestures, as if showing too much effort would be a betrayal of control. The eyes… those cold, unreadable eyes that sometimes landed on her with no warmth, but not quite cruelty either.
Like he was trying not to see her.
Or trying too hard.
---
It was just after noon when she found Berrett in the garden, hacking away at some stubborn ivy along the fence.
"You're going to murder those plants," she said, folding her arms.
He looked up, sweat on his brow. "They started it."
Zelda smiled, then leaned against a tree nearby. "You've been acting weird lately."
Berrett raised an eyebrow. "Says the girl who's been staring into space and wandering halls like a sleepwalker."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He paused, then sighed. "It's this house. When something cracks here, the whole thing feels it."
"Is it about him?" she asked softly.
Berrett's eyes flicked to her, then away. "Lucien?"
She nodded.
"He's always been a problem," Berrett said. "But now he's being quiet. And when Lucien gets quiet… he's thinking. That's never good."
Zelda blinked. "You think he's dangerous?"
"I think he's complicated. And complications in this family usually come with casualties."
She didn't reply. The breeze moved gently between them, rustling leaves that didn't want to be part of the conversation either.
"Do you trust him?" she finally asked.
Berrett looked up again. His gaze was thoughtful now, almost gentle. "I trust he won't do anything without a reason."
"That's not the same."
"No," he said, "it's not."
---
Later that evening, Zelda wandered into the study, hoping to find an old piano she remembered playing once. Her fingers itched for something familiar, something that wouldn't talk back or demand answers.
The room was mostly dark, save for the fading gold of sunset spilling in through the tall windows. Dust floated like whispers through the air. The grand piano stood in the corner, its lid half-lifted like a mouth preparing to speak.
She approached it slowly, brushing her fingers across the keys. The sound was faint — slightly out of tune, but still rich. She pressed a few chords, letting the music echo.
Then came the voice.
"You always played the middle C too softly."
Her hand froze.
She turned, heart jumping into her throat.
Lucien stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if he'd been there for some time. Dressed in black, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins in his forearms, his face was as expressionless as ever.
"You remember?" she asked.
His eyes lingered on hers. "You played that song during your first week here. In front of my father. He liked it."
Zelda blinked. She hadn't even known he'd been in the room back then.
"I didn't think you were listening."
"I wasn't," he said. "But I heard it."
She didn't know what that meant. But it didn't feel like a dismissal.
She turned back to the piano and played the phrase again, louder this time.
He didn't move.
After a while, she said, "Ryan says you've changed."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "He's still medicated."
"That doesn't mean he's wrong."
Lucien stepped inside, slowly. "I've changed because people expect it."
She looked up at him. "And what do you expect?"
He stared at her — too long, too steady.
"I expect people to leave."
Zelda felt the words like a slap. But she didn't flinch.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He looked away. "Everyone does eventually."
---
She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until he turned and left the room.
The silence after was louder than the music.
---
That night, Zelda sat in the hallway just outside Ryan's room, knees pulled to her chest, listening to the faint sound of his breathing through the cracked door. She liked knowing he was there. Awake. Alive.
Marie passed by once, offered her a soft smile, and went downstairs without a word.
She should've gone to bed. But something about the night felt unfinished.
Then — soft footsteps.
Zelda didn't look up right away. But she knew it was Lucien.
He didn't say anything. Just sat across the hall from her, back against the wall, legs stretched out.
They didn't speak.
Minutes passed like that.
She wanted to ask him something — anything — but she was afraid if she said too much, he'd vanish again. He was like smoke in that way. The more you tried to hold it, the faster it slipped through your fingers.
Finally, he said, "He wrote to me once."
Zelda turned to him.
"Who?" she asked.
Lucien looked straight ahead. "You know who."
Her breath caught.
"He asked if I hated him," Lucien said. "Said he needed to know before he tried to fix things."
Zelda's voice was barely there. "And what did you say?"
"I didn't write back."
The silence sat between them like another person.
"But you kept the letter," she said.
Lucien didn't deny it.
---
As the night deepened, Zelda watched him from across the hall, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. He didn't move. He didn't sleep. He just… stayed.
And for the first time since she'd arrived at this mansion, since her heart had begun to ache in ways she didn't understand, she felt something different stir in her chest.
Not comfort.
Not trust.
But curiosity.
She didn't know what Lucien was made of. But she wanted to find out.