The mansion had moods.
Zelda had lived in it long enough to feel them — in the stillness of the halls, the way the walls at certain hours, the particular chill that slipped under her door when something was off.
That morning, the mood was restless.
The sky outside was heavy with grey clouds, casting the corridors in dusky light. Marie had been up early, moving through rooms with unusual urgency, giving orders to staff with a clipped tone. Berrett was nowhere to be found. Lucien… had been gone all night.
Zelda stood at the top of the main staircase, one hand on the railing, listening.
Below her, voices floated up — hushed but sharp. Marie's voice. And someone else's.
She stepped down quietly, skipping the creaky step she knew too well.
"…he can't just send things like this, Marie. You should've returned it immediately," Lucien was saying.
Zelda froze halfway down the staircase, hidden from view.
"I didn't want to upset anyone," Marie replied. Her voice trembled. "He said it was for Ryan. That he meant no harm."
Lucien let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Meaning no harm doesn't erase harm already done."
There was a pause.
"He's still family," Marie whispered.
Lucien didn't respond right away. When he did, his voice was low and even colder.
"Family doesn't abandon people, then pretend to care when it's convenient."
Zelda's breath caught.
She knew who they were talking about — the second brother. The one no one named. The one who left.
And now he had sent… something?
Lucien sighed. "If Ryan sees it, it'll do more damage than good. Burn it."
Zelda pressed her back against the wall, heart racing.
Burn it?
She held still until the conversation ended. Lucien's footsteps receded down the hallway. When she finally descended the stairs fully, Marie was alone in the parlor, staring down at something in her hands.
A small wooden box.
Zelda's footsteps made Marie look up quickly, her expression shuttering like a slammed door.
"Zelda," she said, forcing a smile. "You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep."
Marie placed the box into a drawer and stood. "Go check on Ryan, will you? He's been asking for you."
Zelda hesitated, eyes on the drawer. "What was that?"
Marie shook her head. "Nothing important."
But Zelda knew better than to press — not when Marie used that exact tone.
---
Ryan was sitting up in bed, slowly peeling an orange with his left hand, a comically serious expression on his face.
"Hey, sunshine," Zelda greeted, stepping in.
He looked up and grinned. "Zeldaaa."
She sat beside him. "You look… alive."
"I am alive. Which is more than I can say for this orange. It's not cooperating."
She laughed and took the fruit from him, finishing the peel with ease.
"Show-off," he muttered.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while before he spoke again.
"I had a dream last night."
"About?"
"The attic."
Zelda stiffened. "The attic?"
Ryan nodded slowly. "You were there. So was Berrett. And someone else. But I couldn't see his face."
She tried to keep her voice steady. "Lucien?"
He shook his head. "No. Taller. And… sad."
Zelda stared at the floor.
Ryan's tone shifted. "Do you think he's ever coming back?"
She looked at him. "You remember him?"
"I remember the sound of his laugh more than his face. That's weird, right?"
"No. Not weird."
He looked at her seriously. "Lucien's angry. But I'm not. I just… want to know why he left."
Zelda nodded slowly. "I think a lot of people do."
---
Later that afternoon, Zelda wandered into the old sitting room — the one no one used anymore. Dust clung to the curtains, and the scent of age hung in the air like perfume. The furniture looked untouched, but one of the armchairs had been moved slightly, as if someone had sat there recently.
She ran her fingers along the mantle, brushing away a thin layer of dust, and paused when she spotted a book tucked behind a vase.
It was leather-bound. Old. Familiar.
She pulled it free.
Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded piece of paper.
Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it.
There, in handwriting she didn't recognize but somehow felt, were five words:
"I never meant to leave."
That was all.
No name. No date.
But she knew.
Her fingers tightened on the note.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
Zelda turned, already expecting him.
Lucien stood there, motionless, eyes on the paper in her hands.
"I told her to burn it," he said quietly.
Zelda didn't move. "Why?"
Lucien stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "Because that kind of sentiment is a poison."
She stared at him. "But it's real."
"So is pain."
Zelda folded the paper slowly. "He said he didn't mean to leave."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "Intent doesn't erase impact."
"Then what does?"
He didn't answer.
Zelda stepped closer. "Why are you so angry?"
Lucien looked at her then — really looked. And for a moment, she saw something behind his coldness. Not fury. Not disdain.
Regret.
"I'm not angry at him," he said. "I'm angry at myself. For not stopping him."
Zelda's breath caught.
Lucien's eyes flicked to the paper in her hand.
"Keep it, if you want," he said. "Just don't expect it to change anything."
He left without another word.
---
That night, Zelda couldn't sleep again.
The note sat on her desk, unfolded, the words staring back at her like a challenge.
She found herself wondering: what kind of brother leaves a family like this? And what kind of man tries to come back without returning?
She stood, walked to her window, and stared out into the night.
The lights in the west wing were off.
Except one.
The hallway outside Lucien's study glowed faintly.
She watched it for a while.
Just before turning away, she saw movement.
A figure. Not Lucien.
Taller. Broader.
Gone in an instant.
Zelda's breath caught.
She stepped back from the window, heart pounding.
No. It couldn't be.
But somewhere, deep in her chest, something stirred.
A whisper of recognition.
And just like that — the mansion shifted again.