The rain started just after midnight.
It wasn't loud — just a soft pattern against the windows, like the sky was whispering secrets to the earth. Zelda sat at the window seat in her room, her legs curled beneath her, a throw blanket draped across her shoulders.
She hadn't been able to sleep. Not since the attic. Not since Lucien.
The memory of his voice still echoed in her mind. The way he'd looked at the photo — the same photo she now held in her lap. She'd taken it with her, tucked it between pages of the book from the library. The paper felt fragile in her hands, as though it might crumble if she breathed too hard.
He looked so different in that picture. Closed off. Distant. But not cruel.
Not yet.
She traced the corner of the image with her thumb. So many things have shifted since then.
A knock on her door broke her thoughts.
She turned. "Come in."
Berrett peeked in, holding two mugs. "Hot cocoa. And insomnia solidarity."
She smiled faintly. "You've always had good timing."
He walked in, handed her a mug, then collapsed onto the rug near her window seat like a cat who owned the house.
"Mom's asleep," he said. "Ryan's stable. And you, my dear pumpkin, look like you're staring into the void."
She took a sip. The cocoa was still warm. Sweet. Familiar.
"I was just thinking," she said.
"Dangerous," he teased.
Zelda laughed softly. Then, after a pause: "Do you think he's lonely?"
Berrett looked up at her. "Who? Ryan?"
She shook her head. "Not Ryan."
Berrett's expression changed instantly — subtle, but sharp. He sat up straighter.
"Oh."
Zelda stared into her mug. "You never talk about him."
"Because there's nothing worth saying."
"Then why does it feel like his name still lives in this house?"
Berrett didn't answer immediately. He looked toward the window, his jaw tight.
"I told myself I wouldn't bring him up," he said at last. "Not around you."
"Why?"
"Because... you were too young to remember how things ended. And too soft-hearted not to wonder if he ever meant well."
Zelda blinked slowly. "So he didn't?"
Berrett hesitated. "Let's just say... not everyone who leaves deserves to be missed."
The words landed heavy. Not angry — just tired.
Zelda nodded, even though it raised more questions than it answered.
"Where did he go?" she asked, almost a whisper.
"Nowhere. And everywhere," Berrett said. "He left one night. No goodbye. Just silence and slammed doors. Took whatever peace this house had left with him."
She shivered. Not from the cold.
Berrett glanced at her. "You don't remember him, do you?"
"Barely. Just... a voice. Maybe a look. I don't know if it's real or something I made up."
Berrett sighed. "You were seven when he left. Honestly, I was glad. The tension disappeared. Mom stopped crying."
Zelda rested her chin on her knees. "Did he ever try to come back?"
A pause. Too long.
"No," Berrett said, but his tone betrayed the truth.
Zelda turned. "That's not what you mean."
"He didn't come back the way you're thinking," Berrett corrected. "But he never left completely. Not for her. Not for him."
Her heartbeat picked up. "For who?"
Berrett looked up at her, his eyes careful. "You think Lucien is cold now? You should've seen him after he left."
Zelda blinked. "They were close?"
"Not exactly. But he felt responsible. Like he failed him. Or failed us."
The rain had picked up. A little louder now.
Zelda took a slow breath. "Will he ever come back?"
"I don't know," Berrett said, standing. "But if he does… don't let him in too easily."
Zelda watched him walk to the door, but before he left, he looked back.
"And don't ask him about you," he added. "It's not worth the answer."
Then he was gone.
The next morning, Zelda sat at the kitchen counter, pushing cereal around in a bowl she had no intention of eating.
Marie was across from her, scanning a tablet and muttering to herself.
"Mom?" Zelda said.
Marie looked up, surprised. "Yes, darling?"
"Do you miss him?"
Marie's expression fell. Just for a second. Then she set the tablet down.
"I miss a lot of things," she said. "But not all of them are worth remembering."
Zelda nodded, staring at the milk in her bowl.
Marie reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Why do you ask?"
"I found a photo," Zelda said softly. "From the attic."
Marie's eyes shimmered, but she didn't cry.
"He was your brother," she said after a moment. "And at one point, he was ours too."
Zelda looked at her. "Did he love us?"
Marie gave a sad smile. "He loved what he thought we were. When he realized we were human… it broke something in him."
Zelda wanted to ask more, but a shadow appeared in the doorway.
Lucien was there — dressed, quiet, unreadable.
Their eyes met.
He said nothing. Just walked to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank in silence.
Zelda studied his posture. Tense. Like something was always ready to snap.
She stood. "I'll go sit with Ryan."
He turned to her. "He was asking for you."
Her brows lifted. "Ryan's awake?"
A nod.
"Since when?"
"An hour ago," he said. "Didn't want to wake you."
Zelda moved quickly, nearly dropping her bowl.
Marie smiled softly as she passed. "Tell him we're all relieved."
Ryan's room felt warmer somehow. Less sterile.
Zelda slipped inside and found him blinking slowly at the ceiling.
"Hey," she whispered.
He turned his head with effort, lips parting into a small smile. "Hey… Zel."
She moved closer, sat beside him, and took his hand. "You scared us."
"I scare myself sometimes," he murmured.
She laughed through the tears that started pooling. "Don't do that again."
"No promises."
After a quiet moment, he looked at her. "Was he here?"
Zelda tensed. "Who?"
Ryan raised a brow. "You know who."
She didn't answer.
He closed his eyes. "Tell him next time… he doesn't need to act like a ghost."
Her heart stopped for a moment.
Ryan opened one eye. "You're not a kid anymore, Zel. Be careful what ghosts you welcome back."
That night, Zelda sat in bed, the photo still tucked in her book.
She turned it over. On the back, in childlike handwriting, was a name.
But it had been scribbled out.
A single letter remained.
Just the start of something forgotten.
And just like that, he was real again.
Not a ghost.Not a rumor.Something else entirely.
She didn't sleep.
She didn't want to.