The heavy oak door, whose carved swirls resembled the frozen waves of an ancient sea, creaked under Rue's palm, and that sound—low, drawn-out, full of weary sorrow—echoed through the spacious foyer, as if the ghost of long-gone days had awakened from a centuries-long sleep. She crossed the threshold, and the cold of the marble floor, white as the bones of forgotten ancestors, gnawed through the worn soles of her boots, sending a shiver up her legs like an icy tide. The air in the mansion was thick and still, imbued with the scent of polished wood—bitter, like memories of past grandeur—and old books, whose pages held the whisper of a past long since voiceless. The walls, paneled with dark walnut, seemed alive, their shadows wavering in the dim light of the chandelier, while family portraits, lined up along the corridor, gazed down at her from their silent majesty. Their stern faces—men in frock coats with golden buttons, women with pearl necklaces, frozen in eternal stillness—watched her every step, their oil-painted eyes full of reproach, as if accusing her of daring to disturb their peace.
Rue's gaze, wandering in search of comfort, involuntarily fell upon Ames's guitar, carelessly leaned against the curve of the staircase, whose banisters twisted like grapevines in an abandoned garden. A thin layer of dust, silvery and ghostly, covered its strings—once alive, ringing under his fingers with melodies that could make the heart beat in time or break with longing. Now they were silent, and that silence was louder than any scream, sharper than any blade. In her mind, their last melody sounded—his guitar, her violin, woven together in a harmony that no longer exists. This ghost of music was more painful than the silence of the guitar by the staircase. Rue's heart constricted, as if an invisible thread, woven from pain and memory, tightened it into a tight knot, and her breath caught for a moment in her chest. She turned away, hiding her eyes from this silent witness of his absence, but the image of the guitar remained before her, burned into her consciousness like a shadow on the wall after a lightning flash. Her fingers, still clutching the violin case, trembled, and she pressed it to herself as if it could become a shield against what awaited her ahead.
Rue took a deep breath; the air was cold and prickly, like a winter wind that seeps through the cracks of an old house. She gathered the remnants of her courage, as if picking up shards of broken glass, knowing that each one could cut her. From the living room, light spilled out—soft, golden, but deceptively warm—casting long shadows that writhed on the walls like snakes slithering out of the darkness. Her parents' voices came from there, low and tense, like strings stretched to the breaking point before they snap. Edward was saying something sharp, his words falling like stones into a deep well, while Catherine responded quietly, but with a note of fatigue that betrayed years of suppressed tears. Rue gripped the case's strap so tightly that the leather dug into her palm, leaving red marks, and she moved towards the light. Each step echoed in her chest with a heavy hammer blow, a rhythm that drowned out everything except the growing fear of the inevitable.
The living room greeted her with cold opulence. Edward sat enthroned in his favorite armchair—massive, upholstered in dark green velvet, worn on the armrests from time—with a newspaper open on his knees like a shield against the world. But his gaze, sharp and piercing like copper blades, was fixed on Catherine, not on the lines before him. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back, each strand in place like soldiers in formation, and his white shirt, without a single wrinkle, shone with sterile cleanliness, as if even at home he prepared for a battle for perfection. Opposite him, by the fireplace, stood Catherine, her figure slender, almost fragile, but she held herself with a dignity that bordered on stubbornness. Her blonde hair, pulled into a tight bun, shone in the firelight, accentuating her sharp cheekbones and pale face, while her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of her woolen shawl, revealing the storm that raged beneath her calmness. The fire in the fireplace crackled, throwing out sparks like stars falling into emptiness, but its warmth remained an illusion—the room was as cold as a marble tomb, and Rue's heart, shackled by the ice of foreboding, beat in this frost like a captured bird.
"Finally," Edward said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade sharpened by years of suppressed discontent. He sat in his old armchair, upholstered in worn velvet, his posture tense like a stretched string ready to snap at any moment. The light from the fireplace cast sharp shadows on his face, emphasizing deep wrinkles and the cold glint in his eyes. The newspaper in his hands trembled, crumpled by his fingers as if he was venting all his irritation on it. "Where have you been?"
Rue froze in the doorway, her slender figure seeming even more fragile under his piercing gaze. She swallowed hard, feeling her throat tighten as if gripped by an invisible noose. The cold air from outside still clung to her coat, and her heart pounded wildly and unevenly, like a melody thrown off rhythm. Her fingers, white from tension, clutched the leather strap of her violin case—the only anchor in this storm of questions.
"In the park, playing," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady, but it wavered like cracked glass. The firelight gilded her face but did not warm it—it only highlighted the fatigue in her features, the shadows under her eyes that seemed deeper than usual.
Catherine, standing by the fireplace, turned to her daughter. Her sigh, light and weary, swept through the room like the rustle of autumn leaves falling on cold ground. In her eyes, usually warm like morning light, now swirled anxiety, and her voice carried a subtle disapproval, sharp as a needle that pricks unnoticed.
"Again?" she said, and in that word was more than a question—a whole history of reproaches and disappointments. "You should practice at home, where it's safe, where we can hear you."
A spark ignited inside Rue—not just irritation, but something hotter that threatened to burst into flame. She gripped the case's strap tighter, feeling the leather dig into her palm and leave red marks, and raised her gaze to meet her mother's eyes.
"I needed air," she cut off, her voice ringing with a steely note, though muffled. She paused, her breath faltering, then gathered her resolve and added: "Is there any news about Ames?"
Edward frowned, his thick, graying eyebrows drawing together like storm clouds. He folded the newspaper with a sharp rustle and threw it on the table so hard that the lamp shook and the light trembled on the walls as if in fear.
"No, and I don't expect any," he cut off, his voice cold and firm like ice that binds a river in winter. "He's probably out again with that street music group of his, playing for pennies instead of finding a proper job. The same old dreams that lead nowhere."
Fury flared up in Rue like a spark in dry grass, instantly turning into a flame that burned her from within. Her hands trembled, her fingers clenched into fists, and a lump formed in her throat that she couldn't swallow. Tears stung her eyes, but she clenched her teeth, refusing to let them fall.
"He's not 'hanging around' anywhere," she objected, her voice trembling like a string on the verge of breaking. "He's missing. And you're not even trying to find him. How can you be so... so indifferent?"
Catherine took a step toward her, her movements smooth but heavy with weariness, like someone who has carried a heavy burden for too long. She reached out as if trying to grasp a fleeting connection with her daughter but stopped halfway.
"Rue, he's done this before," she said, her voice soft as silk but trembling with tension. "He'll come back when he's ready, like always. Mark called yesterday, asking about him—he seemed worried."
Rue's heart skipped a beat like a string snapping off its tuning peg. Mark—Ames's friend, the guitarist with tousled hair and an ever-present smile, always by her brother's side even when their parents turned away. If Mark was worried, it was serious. She opened her mouth to ask more, but Edward interrupted, his tone dripping with contempt, thick and caustic like smoke.
"Mark? Another dreamer, like your brother," he dismissed, his hand slicing through the air as if shooing away a persistent fly. "And that Karl they're hanging around with—he's nothing but trouble. Probably got him into some mess. You know what they say about his family—worthless people, nothing but problems."
Rue shook her head, her eyes flashing like embers in a dark room.
"But he left his guitar," she said, her voice trembling with pain and disbelief. "He never does that. Never."
Edward straightened up, his shadow looming over her like a heavy storm cloud.
"And so what? Maybe he finally realized that music is a waste of time," he threw back, and in his words there was not a drop of pity, only steel and certainty. "A useless whim that got him nowhere."
His words struck Rue like a slap, leaving a burning mark on her heart. She froze, her wide-open eyes glistening with tears, and something inside her chest snapped like a melody cut off mid-note.
"How can you say that?" she whispered, her voice fragile, ready to break. "Music is everything to him. It's his soul. And he wouldn't just leave it like that."
"Exactly," Edward cut off, his voice cold and sharp like a winter wind sweeping over a frozen lake, slicing through the silence and leaving an icy trail. He sat up straight in his chair like a general before battle, his fingers gripping the armrests so tightly that veins bulged under his skin, and in his dark, impenetrable eyes, like a storm on the horizon, steel flashed. For a moment, his gaze faltered as if he were looking not at Rue but at the empty space where Ames should have been. "And look where it led him. Nowhere—just emptiness where he drowned himself."
Anger blazed in Rue's chest, hot and uncontrollable like a forest fire consuming everything in its path. Her heart pounded like a drum, drowning out everything except pain and rage. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, leaving tiny crescent marks, and her breathing became ragged like a melody slipping off key. The firelight reflected in her eyes but did not warm them—it only highlighted the tears trembling on her eyelashes, ready to fall like rain she feared so much.
"You never saw him like I did," she said, her voice trembling but carrying a steely resolve like a string stretched to its limit. "His music, his soul. To you, he was just a burden."
Edward shot up from his chair, his face reddening like a sunset before a storm.
"Because he needed discipline!" he roared, his voice thundering like a storm shaking the walls of the old house. "Talent without effort is nothing, Rue! He squandered his life like trash, chasing dreams that led to nothing! He never took it seriously, never listened to me!"
"He tried!" Rue cried back, her voice soaring like a piercing violin note tearing through dissonance. Hot, salty tears finally streamed down her cheeks, leaving burning trails, but she didn't notice them, consumed by the storm inside. "He tried, but you only saw his mistakes! You never told him he was worth anything, that you were proud of him!"
Catherine raised her hand, her movement slow and almost pleading as if trying to catch a fleeting chord of harmony long lost in their family. Her fingers trembled, and in her eyes, usually warm like morning light, now swirled shadows of guilt and weariness, heavy as an old tapestry hanging over the fireplace.
"Rue, that's not fair," she said, her voice soft but fragile like thin ice ready to crack under pressure. "I look at his empty room every day and think... what if he doesn't come back? But what can we do, Rue? We've searched for him before. We're worried too."
"Then why aren't you doing anything?" Rue gasped with indignation, her voice breaking like a string under too much tension. She stepped forward, her eyes burning like coals in the darkness, and words poured out like a torrent sweeping everything away. "You're just waiting for him to come back as if he ran away again after another fight. But it's not like that! He's in trouble—I know it!"
"Enough!" Edward stood up, his figure looming over the room like the shadow of a storm cloud ready to unleash its fury. His face was red with anger, his eyes flashing like lightning, and each step echoed like thunder. "I will not tolerate that tone in my house! You forget yourself, Rue!"
But Rue couldn't stop. Words poured out in a torrent fed by months of anxiety, pain, and fear that had built up in her soul like water behind a dam ready to burst. She stepped toward her father, her frail figure trembling with rage, and her voice, full of desperation, rang out like an alarm.
"You never saw him like I did!" she cried, her words like blows leaving cracks in their fragile family bond. "All you care about is your reputation, your rules, your perfect world where everything is under control! And Ames didn't fit into it, so you just brushed him aside!"
Edward took a step toward her, his eyes flashing like polished steel, and his voice took on a threatening low note like the growl of a cornered beast.
"That's not true, and you know it," he growled, his words heavy like stones thrown at her. "We gave him everything—a home, education, opportunities! And he chose to wander with a guitar instead of becoming someone!"
Rue shook her head, her tears falling to the floor like raindrops heralding a storm.
"Then why aren't you looking for him?" she demanded, her voice breaking with pain. "Why don't you care what happened to him? Why don't you call the police, contact his friends, do something?"
"We're not indifferent," Catherine said softly, her voice almost a whisper but drowned out by Rue's fury like a weak chord in an orchestra's cacophony. She stepped closer, her hands trembling and tears glistening in her eyes that she held back with the same strength as her daughter. "I look at his empty room every day and think... what if he doesn't come back? But what can we do, Rue? We've searched for him before. We're worried too."
"Then what?" Rue gasped for air, her chest heaving as if drowning in her own emotions. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away; her gaze was fixed on her parents, full of desperation and challenge. "You're just waiting for him to come back? What if he doesn't? What if he's in trouble and you're not even trying?"
"He'll come back," Edward said firmly, his voice like a hammer's blow—final and unyielding. "Like always. He's just lost in his fantasies again, and I'm not going to run after him."
Rue froze, her breath stopping as if the world around her had slowed down.
"Not this time," she whispered, her voice trembling with horror like a leaf in the wind before a storm. "I feel something's wrong. Something happened to him."
With each word she spoke, anger seemed to saturate the air, making the shadows tremble like reflections in dark water. The room began to respond to her pain—the fireplace light dimmed, and the walls shook as if ready to dissolve in her despair. The shadows in the corners, previously still, came to life, thickening like ink spreading across water and slowly engulfing everything around. They writhed like snakes slithering out of cracks in the old walls, pulsing in time with Rue's wildly beating heart. She wiped her tears with her sleeve, her fingers trembling and leaving wet marks on her burgundy sweater, but the darkness did not recede—it grew thicker, more tangible like smoke hovering over a burnt-out fire. The family portrait on the wall—the one capturing them in a rare moment of happiness: Ames with his easy smile, Catherine with her gentle gaze, Edward with his proud posture—began to distort as if the canvas itself rejected their past. Their faces twisted into grimaces of silent reproach and pain, reflecting her fear that the family was falling apart. The colors ran like tears, and Ames's eyes seemed to look straight at her, pleading for something she couldn't understand. Rue blinked, her eyelashes trembling, but the vision did not disappear—it became clearer, more real like a nightmare that refuses to let go.
"What's happening?" she murmured, her voice weak, almost a whisper muffled by fear gripping her throat like a cold hand. She pressed her palms to her chest, trying to calm her heart pounding like a drum before battle, but each beat only intensified the feeling that the world around her was collapsing.
Edward continued speaking, his once sharp voice now dull like an echo coming from under water.
"Stop this immediately!" he roared, but the words drowned in a strange, viscous silence as if the air in the room had become liquid, absorbing sounds. His figure, tall and authoritative, began to blur at the edges like a mirage in the desert.
Catherine, standing by the fireplace, reached out her hand; her fingers trembled like leaves before a storm.
"Rue, are you all right?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with alarm like distant bells tolling disaster. But when Rue looked at her, Catherine's eyes—usually warm like morning light—had turned into black voids, empty and bottomless like wells swallowing stars. Horror, cold and sticky, gripped Rue to the bone, and she stepped back; her boots creaked on the marble floor now seeming as unstable as a quagmire.
"No... this isn't real," she whispered, her voice trembling like a note slipping off key. She pressed her palms to her temples, hoping the world would return to its usual form, but reality continued to crack at the seams like an old canvas torn by invisible hands.
The room began to dissolve; its once solid walls turned into thick gray fog that swirled like smoke over an abandoned altar. The floor under her feet became soft like a bog, and each step Rue took made a squelching sound as if she were walking through a swamp ready to swallow her. She tried to run; her legs moved but her body wouldn't obey as if stuck in invisible tar. The fog thickened, enveloping her like a shroud—cold and heavy; its touch almost tangible like ghostly fingers reaching for the living. Rue screamed; her voice burst from her chest full of desperation but drowned in silence like a stone thrown into a bottomless lake. The last thing she saw was her parents' shocked faces; their eyes full of horror and disbelief before darkness—thick and impenetrable—closed over her like a curtain falling at the end of a tragedy.
When Rue came to, she was lying on damp grass; her fingers dug into the soft, cold earth saturated with the smell of dampness and decay that filled her lungs with every breath.