The next day dawned bleak, the world drenched in muted grays. Rain tapped gently on the windows, each drop a quiet drumbeat in the silence of the estate.
Dash, restless and unable to shake off the unease that had been with him for the last two days, slipped into the large kitchen early, before the usual flurry of cooks and maids had begun their morning routines. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and brewing herbs.
He found Igor already there, a solitary figure silhouetted against the faint light filtering through the rain-streaked glass. He stood at the far counter, a bastion of calm amidst the disquieting atmosphere, methodically prepping tea service for his sister.
Each movement was smooth, practiced, and quiet, the gentle clink of porcelain, the subtle rustle of dried leaves being scooped with meticulous precision, a testament to years of devoted service.
He was a silent, watchful presence, a constant in a world that seemed to be shifting on its axis. The quiet competence of his actions offered a small, improbable comfort in the face of the day's looming strangeness.
"Morning, sir," Igor said without turning, as though he'd sensed Dash's presence rather than heard it. The pronouncement hung in the air, dense with the scent of brewing coffee.
Dash swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat betraying his discomfort. "You don't have to call me that." He hated the title, the weight of expectation it implied, the chasm it created between him and everyone else.
Igor paused, his fingers stilling just a moment too long on the ornate porcelain cup he was holding, a subtle hesitation that spoke volumes. The gesture wouldn't have been noticed by anyone else, but Dash had learned to read the man's minute movements.
"It is protocol." The words were delivered with a quiet, almost reverent stoicism. They weren't an act of defiance, but a statement of immutable fact. Protocol was Igor's religion, the framework within which he operated.
To disregard it would be to unravel the fabric of his meticulously ordered world. The implication was clear: Dash may not like the title, but Igor was duty-bound to use it.
Dash took a step closer. "Do you remember what you said yesterday?" His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the unsettling calm emanating from Igor. He wasn't sure what he'd overheard, exactly.
Igor turned then, slowly, deliberately. His expression was calm and pleasant. Too pleasant. It was the kind of forced serenity that masked something churning beneath the surface. "I said many things yesterday. Would you like tea?" He gestured vaguely towards the direction of the kitchen, his eyes twinkling with a light that felt…wrong.
"No," Dash said, voice tight, strained. He planted his feet, refusing to be drawn into Igor's polite charade. "You were in the hallway. Talking to yourself." The words felt inadequate, clumsy. He needed to be more precise and more forceful, but the normalcy of the situation, the offer of tea, and the neatness of the room were throwing him off balance.
"I often rehearse routines," Igor replied smoothly, his voice like polished stone. "It's part of optimization." The word hung in the air, loaded with an unspoken weight. Optimization of what? Dash wondered.
And why did the answer feel so inherently sinister? He studied Igor's face, searching for a flicker of guilt, a hint of deception. But Igor remained an unreadable mask, his pleasant facade unwavering.
"But you said you serve," Dash insisted, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You said you don't remember." He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his voice rising now, a tremor of anger and desperation vibrating within it.
Heat burned behind his words, a desperate plea masked as an accusation. "Do you remember me, Igor? Do you remember me?"
The silence pressed down, thick with tension. Dash held his breath, eyes locked on Igor's face, searching. Then, something flickered behind Igor's vacant gaze. A spark of recognition? A ghost of memory? Dash couldn't be sure, but his heart leaped.
"I remember that you used to sneak into the kitchen and steal spoonfuls of honey when you thought no one was looking," he said quietly, his voice a soft rumble that broke the stifling silence.
It was a simple statement, delivered with a surprising gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier blankness. The words hung in the air, a fragile bridge spanning the abyss of lost time.
Dash blinked, thrown completely off balance. The accusation he'd prepared, the angry questions he'd rehearsed, all evaporated in the face of this unexpected revelation. Honey? Sneaking? It was such a trivial, innocent memory. It was... domestic. And utterly, undeniably, him. He hadn't expected Igor to remember that.
Igor's hand twitched, just once, the cup rattling faintly against its saucer. A flicker of static seemed to buzz behind his eyes, so brief that Dash almost thought he imagined it. "Sometimes," Igor said, voice hollow, "when I reach for it… the name… it burns."
Dash stiffened. "Burns how?"
"Like trying to remember the wrong kind of dream. The kind they tell you never happened." He blinked again, slower this time. "And the pain is the punishment. The forgetting is the reward."
Igor set the cup down, the ceramic clinking softly against the worn wooden table. "When I dream, sometimes I remember… not a past, exactly. Just a moment. Her voice. The way she said my name, as if she were giving me something I didn't know I was missing."
He paused, his gaze unfocused, lost in the swirling mists of fragmented memory.
His voice trembled, a barely audible whisper fighting past the fear tightening in his throat. "And then I wake up." The words hung in the silence, heavy with longing and a profound sense of loss.
Dash didn't move. Didn't breathe. He was a statue, carved from stone and draped in shadows, utterly captivated by the vulnerability spilling from Igor. Igor's hands were shaking, not with a tremor of age, but with a deep, inner turmoil, a chaotic battle between the present and the ghost of a forgotten past.
Dash's eyes, usually sharp and observant, were wide with a mixture of concern and a dawning understanding.
Dash moved closer, slowly, watching the way Igor's posture subtly shifted, tense, restrained. It was a barely perceptible change, the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. His wings were twitching. Like a violin string pulled too tight, humming with potential energy, threatening to snap.
He looked taller somehow in the dim kitchen light, the shadows amplifying his frame and face, but also… frayed.
The usual impeccable composure seemed to have cracked, revealing raw edges. Less than the collected, disciplined figure Dash had grown used to. More human now, unguarded, exposed, real, his carefully concealed emotions flickering to the surface like cracks in glass.
"If something's wrong with you, I want to help," Dash said, the words landing with more conviction than he expected. "You saved me once when I got locked in the greenhouse and the vents cut out. You carried me out. That wasn't an order. That was you."
Igor's eyes lifted, slow and steady. "That wasn't part of my assigned route," he said quietly. "They told me I'd overstepped."
Dash gave a dry smile. "Yeah, well… maybe they didn't like that you made a call."
He hesitated. "Maisie would want to help you, too. She remembers you, maybe not the rally, not what they did to her."
Something shifted in Igor's expression then. Not anger. Something deeper, worn, and cracked. "I know," he said, voice low. "She talks to me like I'm still real."
He looked away. "Whatever they erased in her… it didn't reach you. You're still inside her memory."