When I came back from downtown that afternoon, my head was heavy with thoughts. I couldn't shake them off, no matter how I tried.
There was one word, one single word, that clung to me like it had been nailed inside my mind.
Alpha.
That word repeated itself in my head, again and again, like the beat of a drum or the thump of a heart.
Why had the woman in the bookstore said it like it explained everything? Why had she looked at me with such strange, sharp eyes the moment she realized where I lived?
If you live there… then greet the Alpha for me.
The memory made me shiver.
⸻
That evening, I tried to distract myself with chores. I worked upstairs in the study, dusting the old wooden shelves. The room smelled like old paper, cedar wood, and something faintly bitter, like herbs that had been left to dry.
The mansion was so quiet that it felt as if the walls themselves were listening. The silence pressed on me, thick and heavy.
I told myself I should talk to Aunt Neela about what the woman said. But deep inside, something told me to keep my mouth shut. The word "Alpha" felt dangerous. It felt like if I said it out loud, something fragile inside the house would break.
And honestly, I already suspected Aunt Neela was keeping things from me. Every time I asked her questions about the mansion—the locked rooms, the covered picture frames, the attic—her answers were clipped and short. Sometimes she didn't answer at all.
That night in bed, I lay awake with the blanket pulled up to my chin, going over everything strange I had noticed since arriving. The picture frames in the hallway that were hidden with cloth. The golden eyes in the portrait of the young man. How the portrait went missing the very next day. The three sets of dishes in the sink, even though only two of us lived there. The attic window, swinging open on its own. And now, this word, Alpha, spoken by a stranger.
Then there was Eldoria—the little herb shop Aunt Neela sent me to last week. I had gone with a note she gave me. The old man at the counter didn't even ask questions. He handed me a package the moment he saw the note, like he already knew what I was coming for.
Inside was a small glass bottle with a pale liquid. Aunt Neela called it a calming medicine. That was all she said, and I didn't dare ask more. But the memory kept poking at me now, unsettling and strange.
I tossed and turned, restless. The hours dragged on. Finally, I drifted into a light, uneasy sleep.
⸻
CRASH!
My eyes flew open.
The sound was so loud, so violent, that for a second I thought the roof itself had caved in. My heart jumped hard in my chest.
Something had fallen.
No—not fallen. The noise was too sharp, too angry. It sounded like heavy furniture being slammed against a wall.
Another crash shook the ceiling above me, shaking dust loose from the beams. The whole house rattled as though something alive was thrashing around.
The attic.
My body moved before I could think. I threw the blanket aside, rushed to the door, and yanked it open—ready to call for Aunt Neela. But the hallway stopped me cold.
At the far end, a faint light flickered. A lantern's glow, moving and swaying. And in that glow, I saw her.
Aunt Neela.
Her silhouette was thin, determined. She walked quickly toward the attic stairs. She didn't hesitate, didn't glance back. For someone usually so calm and fragile-looking, her steps now were steady, strong, almost fierce.
I froze, my hand gripping the doorframe.
And then I heard her.
Her voice was soft, but I caught it as clearly as if she had whispered in my ear.
One word.
"Alpha."
My blood turned to ice.
I stood in the dark, rooted to the spot, listening as she climbed the stairs into the shadows.
I didn't sleep again that night.
⸻
The next morning, I sat at the breakfast table, trying to act normal though my stomach twisted with questions.
I couldn't stay silent any longer.
"What was that noise last night?" I asked. My voice shook slightly, though I tried to make it sound casual.
Aunt Neela didn't even look up from her plate. "I stacked some things poorly in storage. They fell."
Too quick. Too smooth.
Her answer sounded rehearsed, like she had thought it up long before I asked.
I stared at her, searching her lined face for cracks in her calm expression. But she just kept chewing her food, swallowing, sipping her tea.
The matter was closed.
The word I had heard her whisper—Alpha—burned on my tongue, begging to be asked. But when I looked into her sharp, steady eyes, I knew pressing her would do no good. She would only build more walls.
So I swallowed my questions along with my dry bread.
And I told myself maybe… maybe it was better not to know.
Days passed after that, quiet and strangely ordinary.
Life slipped into a rhythm that almost felt normal.
Every morning, I ate breakfast with Aunt Neela in the kitchen. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery against plates.
After breakfast, she went upstairs—always to the attic—while I cleaned the ground floor, dusted, swept, or worked in the garden.
Her rules were always the same. Don't open locked doors. Don't move the curtains. And don't touch the rose bushes.
I obeyed. But every time I repeated her rules in my mind, unease spread deeper in me.
In the afternoons, when my chores slowed, I often read in the study or sat out on the balcony, staring at the forest.
The days stretched quietly, yet the mansion always felt as if it was holding a secret breath.