Virelles looked different from the street.
From the inside of the family car, it had always seemed like a postcard — all sea spray and shining glass, polished roads lined with trimmed palms. The kind of city that pretended it didn't smell like salt and iron beneath its perfume of progress.
But walking through it now, Cael saw how the edges frayed. Paint peeled from doorframes. Rust chewed through the rails near the harbor. Windows breathed out the scent of bread, smoke, and old coffee. The air was still full of the sea, but this time it wasn't the kind of scent that stayed behind marble walls — it was the raw kind, alive and restless.
He walked without direction. His shoes scuffed against uneven pavement, each step carrying him farther from the version of himself that used to move carefully, precisely. His hands stayed in his pockets, clutching the envelope Noah had given him like it might disappear if he loosened his grip.
He didn't look back at the Ross estate. He didn't need to. The silence of that place clung to him still, too thick to shake off.
The street narrowed as it sloped down toward the docks. The hum of traffic softened into gull calls and waves slapping against concrete. He was thinking about how silence seemed to carry farther by the sea when a voice cut through the wind.
"Cael!"
He turned sharply.
Noah stood at the corner of the pavement, half in shadow. His coat fluttered in the breeze, his face pale beneath the fading light. For a heartbeat, Cael thought he'd imagined it — another ghost from the house come to haunt him. But then Noah stepped closer, breath visible in the chill.
"You shouldn't be here," Cael said quietly.
"I know." Noah's voice trembled with the kind of restraint that came from years of practice — the same tone their father used before the shouting began. "I had to find you before you went too far."
He held out an envelope. The corners were worn, folded over twice. "These are yours. Birth record, school certificate… what I could grab without raising questions."
Cael blinked. "And?"
"And this." Noah pulled a thin wallet from his pocket and pressed it into Cael's palm. "It's not much. Enough to last a few days if you're careful."
Cael hesitated. The leather was warm from Noah's hand. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're my brother," Noah said simply. His eyes flicked toward the distant rooftops as if the house itself might overhear. "And because I couldn't stand there pretending you don't exist."
The words sat heavy between them, heavier than pity, heavier than guilt.
Noah looked older than Cael remembered — lines cutting through the corners of his mouth, exhaustion shadowing his eyes. "Aaron's furious," he said softly. "He told everyone you pushed Eve. Caleb's repeating it like it's scripture. Mother won't speak. And Father—" He swallowed hard. "Father told the staff that your name isn't to be mentioned again."
The words shouldn't have hurt; he'd already known. But hearing them made something inside him fracture a little more.
"I wasn't planning to go back," Cael murmured.
"I figured," Noah said. "Still… I wanted to see you once more." His scent — cedar and rain — was familiar and steady, but beneath it Cael caught something raw, the sour tang of fear.
"You should leave Virelles," Noah said after a moment. "There's nothing for you here. People will talk. They'll point."
"I know."
"Then why stay?"
Cael looked toward the sea, where the horizon blurred into gray. "Because it's still home. Or it was."
Noah exhaled through his nose. "It's just the place you were born now. The rest of it — it's gone."
He reached out, gripping Cael's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time. "I love you. But I have a family now. If they find out I came here…"
"I won't tell anyone."
Their eyes met — one brother steady, the other breaking quietly inside.
"Take care of yourself," Noah whispered. "Please."
Cael nodded. "Thank you. For everything."
When Noah turned to leave, his footsteps were almost soundless. The mist swallowed him by the next corner, his figure dissolving into the gray like he'd never been there.
Cael stood in the wind for a long while, the envelope pressed against his chest, the weight of his brother's kindness heavy and fleeting all at once.
He found the building by following the scent of damp concrete and rust.
It sat on the edge of the city's industrial quarter, where the sea's breath turned faint and the sound of waves gave way to the hum of machines. The paint was peeling, the "For Rent" sign hung crooked, and the stairs sagged in the middle like a tired spine. But it was a place that didn't know his name. That was all he needed.
Inside, the stairwell smelled of rain and old cigarettes. The flickering bulb cast the walls in a tired amber glow.
The woman at the desk barely looked up when he slid Noah's bills across the counter. "Single room. Top floor," she said, pushing a key toward him. "Don't expect quiet."
"I won't," Cael replied.
The room was small — a window, a single bed, a table that wobbled if he breathed too hard. Wallpaper peeled like old skin, and the ceiling leaked when the wind changed direction. But it was his. For the first time in his life, he could lock a door and know that no one on the other side had the right to open it.
He set the envelope down on the table and unfolded the papers. His name — Cael Ross — looked wrong here. Too clean. Too polished for a place that reeked of oil and sea and loneliness.
He folded them again, slower this time, and tucked them into the lining of his coat.
Then he heard it — a faint scrape of wood against tile, followed by a soft grunt.
When he opened the door, an old woman stood at the bottom of the stairwell, struggling with a box almost her own size. The elevator doors hung open, a handwritten note taped over the buttons: OUT OF ORDER AGAIN.
"Let me help," Cael said without thinking.
She startled, then laughed — a low, rustling sound that reminded him of paper and warmth. "Oh, bless you, young man. These knees stopped cooperating sometime last winter."
He lifted the box easily. It was heavy with the faint scent of books and dried flowers. "Which floor?"
"Third," she said cheerfully. "High enough to see the sky, low enough that I don't die trying."
They climbed together, step by step. She talked the whole way — about the building, about how the sea used to reach this far before the city built its walls, about her late husband who'd sworn the place would crumble long before she did.
Her words filled the air with something that didn't feel like pity or suspicion. Just… humanity.
At the third floor, she unlocked her door with a polished brass key. The apartment smelled faintly of tea and lemon soap. "Set it there, dear. You're stronger than you look."
He smiled faintly. "Is there anyone else who helps you?"
"Oh, the neighbors keep to themselves," she said, brushing dust from her skirt. "I manage. Been managing for forty years."
She looked at him properly then, her eyes sharp and kind all at once. "You just moved in, didn't you? I saw you with Mara downstairs. You looked… a little lost."
"I suppose I am," Cael admitted.
"Then you've found the right building," she said with a wink. "Everyone here's a little lost."
She shook a tin on her counter. It rattled hollowly. "Come by later, young man. I'll make tea — if the kettle hasn't finally given up."
He almost refused. The words were ready — I don't want to trouble you. But instead, he heard himself say, "I'd like that."
Her smile deepened, gentle and knowing. "Good. It's been too quiet lately."
When he left her apartment, the hallway light flickered once and steadied, as if the building itself approved.
He climbed the rest of the stairs slowly, listening to the hum of the city through the walls — the shouts from the docks, the distant chime of a tram bell, the low heartbeat of a world that didn't care who he was.
In his room, he opened the window. The city stretched before him — uneven roofs, smoke trails, gulls circling over the harbor. The air that came in smelled of salt and iron and the faint sweetness of bread from some unseen bakery.
He leaned against the frame and breathed deeply.
The house by the coast was gone. The echoes of polished floors and cold voices had faded into memory. Here, there was rust and rain and the soft sound of someone living on the floor below. Here, the world began again — not in grand gestures, but in small mercies: a brother's envelope, an old woman's laugh, the steady rhythm of a place that didn't demand perfection.
For the first time in his life, Cael felt the weight of kindness — and found it light enough to carry.