I don't remember walking to the balcony.Maybe I never left it.
My eyes sting. Not from tears. Just from how long I've been staring. The air hasn't moved in a while. Not up here. It's too still, like everything's waiting. Or mourning.
I don't think the night ended.But the dark is thinning. A little. The sky's grey, not black. But it's the kind of grey that looks sick. A dying kind of color.
I'm leaning forward, chest on the railing, arms draped over. My fingers are cold. I can't feel the tips. I didn't bring anything with me. Didn't plan to be out here.
Didn't plan anything.
Below, the garden's still half-covered in shadow. The roses don't look red in the dark. They look like bruises. Or scabs. The wind isn't strong enough to move them. Even the maze sits there, dead quiet.
I hear footsteps.
Not loud. Not fast. Measured. Careful.
He always walks like that.
The door opens with the softest click. I don't turn around. I already know who it is.
"You should head to bed, young master," he says, after a pause.He speaks gently.
"There's no need to worry tonight."
His voice barely makes it to me. It feels like I'm underwater.
I nod. Just once. That's all I can manage.If I try to speak, I'll get it wrong. Or worse—he'll see I'm not really here.
He doesn't ask anything else. Doesn't touch me. Just steps away. I hear the door close again.
I stay.A long time.Or maybe a short time.
Eventually, I drag myself back into the room. My feet ache like I'd been walking in place for hours. My hands fumble with the door.
The room's too quiet. Even the wind doesn't reach in. Just a dull hum pressing on the walls.
I crawl into bed. Don't bother to change. The sheets are colder than the floor. My skin doesn't care. I lie on my side, then my back, then I give up and just let myself sink.
I don't remember closing my eyes.
Then I see it.
Not a dream. It's more than that.
I'm older. Taller. I can feel the bones in my arms like knives. My voice is hoarse, like I've been shouting for years without ever saying what I meant.
There are people—faces—voices—but they flicker too fast to hold. I know them. Or I will. Or I did.
I'm standing on something hard. Cold. Not here. Not the mansion. Somewhere else.
I'm surrounded by light. Not warm light. The kind that cuts. Like truth that doesn't care.
I see blood. A lot of it. Mine. Others. I don't know who started it. I don't know if it ends.
Then nothing.
Darkness again. But it's inside now. Not around me.
And I understand something.
I made this.
Not the place. Not the people.
But the silence. The emptiness. The hurt.It came from me.
And I don't know if I'm proud or ashamed.
But I'm alone.Utterly, completely.
And I always will be.
My eyes snap open.
The ceiling stares back. Pale grey. The same color as before. But now it's morning.
Barely.
I sit up too fast. My chest burns. I pull the blanket tighter without meaning to.
Sweat sticks to my skin. My breath comes in short, sharp pulls.
The dream no, not a dream it's gone. Fading already. I reach for it, but there's nothing to grab. Like trying to catch the shadow of smoke.
My hands shake. I grip my knees, try to steady myself.
My throat is dry. My whole body feels like it doesn't belong to me.
I don't know how long I sit like that.
ThenThe door slams open.
I flinch.
He's there. The butler. Eyes wide, breath a little short. Like he ran the last few steps. His coat's uneven.
She's behind him. Quiet. Always quiet. The girl they assigned to help me. Younger than him. Quicker with her hands.
"Are you alright?" she asks, rushing to me.
I don't answer. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
He steps forward, slower. Scanning the room like something might still be here.
"I thought I heard something," he says.
I look at them both. Their faces blur slightly. Not from tears. I still haven't cried. I don't think I know how anymore.
I shake my head. It's all I can do.
"I… I saw something," I manage.
"What did you see?" she asks, kneeling beside me.
"I don't know," I say. "I forgot."
Her hand rests lightly on my arm.
"It's okay," she whispers.
The butler watches, silent. Eyes tight. Hands behind his back, like always. But I see the edge of worry in his fingers.
"We'll get you ready," he says.
They help me stand. The floor is steady, but I'm not. I let them move me. Their hands work quickly, but not rough.
The girl washes my face. Her cloth is warm. She doesn't ask more questions.
He lays out new clothes. I don't look at them. Just wear them. Doesn't matter what they are.
The room fills with quiet. Not heavy. Just present.
They finish and step back. She smooths my hair with a trembling hand before stepping away.
"I'll bring breakfast later," she says.
I nod. Not because I'm hungry. Just to let her go.
They leave.
The door stays open a little. Just a crack.
I walk to the balcony again. My legs feel heavier than before. But they move.
Outside, the garden is clearer now. The roses look red again. The maze still hasn't moved.
I grip the railing. The stone is warm from the sun.
I look at the sky. Pale. Cloudless.
I want to say something. But I don't.
Instead, I close my eyes.
And I imagine flying.
On the wind. In the sun. Through the moonlight.
Anywhere but here.
And I stand like that, hoping the wind will come and carry me off.
Just for a moment.
Just far enough to forget again.