By the time I came downstairs for lunch, the silence of the Crimson mansion had already begun to sink into me. It wasn't the kind of silence that felt peaceful. It was heavy, pressing, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
The dining room was huge, far bigger than needed. A long wooden table stretched across the room, polished but faded with age. Yet only two places were set—one for Aunt Neela and one for me.
The curtains were drawn tight, just like in every other room of the house. Sunlight tried to sneak through, but it only made faint, weak shadows across the carpet. Above us hung a chandelier, but it was unlit. Dust clung to the corners. The room smelled faintly of lemon polish, mixed with the dry scent of old wood.
I had questions ready—so many of them. They had been circling in my mind ever since I stepped into this house. Why was Aunt Neela the only one caring for a mansion this enormous? Where were the other workers, the cooks, the cleaners, the gardeners? And above all, who was the master of the house—the mysterious figure whose name everyone seemed careful not to say?
But when I saw Aunt Neela already sitting at the table, her back straight and her eyes unreadable, my questions felt heavy in my throat.
She moved with the same precision she always did, her fork rising and falling in a perfect rhythm. No wasted movement. No pause for small talk. It was as if conversation itself was a waste of time.
Still, I couldn't stay quiet forever.
"Aunt Neela," I said at last, careful with my tone, "do you manage the whole mansion by yourself?"
Her fork paused. Just for a second. Then it lowered again.
"Yes," she said simply.
That was it. One word. No explanation of how she managed such a massive place alone. No mention of why she did it. Her answer was like a locked door in my face.
I hesitated, then tried again. "And… the master of the house? Where is he?"
This time, her pause was longer. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she answered.
"The owners—the parents—are dead. Only their son remains."
I blinked. Their son?
So he was the one Aunt Neela meant whenever she said "the master." The heir. The one who supposedly owned not only the mansion, but much of Elwood itself.
"As I've told you already," she continued, her voice firm, "he does not welcome strangers in his home."
The question slipped out before I could stop it. "Does he know I'm here?"
Aunt Neela's gaze snapped to mine. Her eyes were sharp, like glass ready to cut.
"He doesn't need to," she said coldly. "He has no interest in the likes of us. Remember only one thing."
Her stare grew harder, pinning me to my chair.
"Never set foot in the attic."
The words chilled me. My palms grew damp against the tablecloth.
"I… I understand," I whispered.
"You may clean the first and second floors," she went on briskly, "and tend to the garden if needed. But the attic is mine to care for. Do not go near it."
I lowered my eyes, my heart thudding. The warning rang louder in my mind than anything else she'd said.
After a moment, her tone softened just slightly. "Your classes at the community college begin in a few weeks, do they not?"
"Yes," I said quietly.
"That is your priority. It was Lethia's wish for you. You promised her, remember?"
My throat tightened, but I nodded. "Yes."
"When you are not studying, you may help me with the work here. That is all."
"I understand."
She gave a curt nod. "Good. You may also explore the town when you have time. Familiarize yourself with Elwood. You'll need to run errands now and then."
The thought of walking through that strange, silent town alone made my stomach twist. I shook my head. "I'll work here first."
"Very well," she said, and we finished the meal in silence.
⸻
That night, the quiet of the mansion grew almost unbearable. The wind outside stirred the tall trees, their branches scraping softly against the windows. Now and then, the floorboards creaked above me, as though the house itself shifted in its sleep.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight stretched pale and thin across my blanket, but it wasn't enough to comfort me.
My mind circled endlessly. Why was the attic so important? Why did Aunt Neela forbid me with such force? Why did she run the mansion alone, when houses half its size had entire staffs? Why did the people in town look at me the way they did—sharp, curious, almost watchful?
The questions ran and ran, but never formed answers. Only fragments. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, I told myself. I grew up in Arandelle. I'm used to noise, to crowds, to life everywhere. This is different. Quieter. I'll adjust. Things will get better.
I clung to the thought until sleep finally pulled me under.
⸻
The next morning, I began my work.
Breakfast was quick and wordless. Aunt Neela moved through her routine with mechanical efficiency, then disappeared into the depths of the house, leaving me to clean.
Most of the doors on the second floor were locked. Aunt Neela had told me clearly not to touch them. Dust lay lightly over the furniture that was left uncovered. My job wasn't to restore life, but to keep the silence untouched.
Her rules echoed in my mind as I worked. Never open the curtains. Never unlock a door. Never touch the attic.
Why? What was the mansion hiding?
As I dusted one hallway, my rag brushed against a frame covered by a white cloth. The sheet had slipped a little, showing a corner of what was beneath. Curiosity tugged at me.
I pulled it back.
And froze.
It was a portrait of a young man. Maybe my age, or a little older. He wore a black tuxedo, his posture perfect, his shoulders squared like someone born to authority. His face was handsome, but cold—his lips unsmiling, his eyes piercing.
I couldn't look away. Something about him felt alive, as if he might step out of the frame at any moment.
Then I saw his eyes.
They weren't brown. They weren't blue. They weren't any normal color at all. They gleamed like metal. Like molten gold.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Quickly, I dropped the cloth back over the frame. My hands shook as I forced myself to keep cleaning. But the image stayed in my mind, sharp and impossible to forget.
The next morning, when I passed the hallway again, the portrait was gone. In its place hung another painting—plain, dull, unremarkable.
My chest tightened. Had Aunt Neela seen me uncover it? Did she know?
Was that man—the one with the golden eyes—the son she had spoken of? The master of the mansion?
I waited all day for her to scold me, to warn me. But she said nothing. She moved through her work as if nothing had happened.
That silence made it worse.