Morning arrived like a whisper through fog—gray and heavy, clinging to the windows of the quiet London home. Adrian stirred from a restless sleep, body weighted by the lingering pull of Sefirah Castle, mind still bristling with its symbols. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, the residue of transformation settling into bone and muscle. Then—knock, knock, knock—sharp and deliberate, echoing in the stillness like a summons. He blinked, heart already tightening, and sat upright. That rhythm wasn't casual. It belonged to someone trained to demand entry.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and crossed the old floorboards. Light from the thin curtains painted faint, golden lines across the faded wallpaper. Adrian paused before opening the door to steady his breath.
On the porch stood a tall, square-jawed man, drenched by the drizzle. His cap was tucked beneath one arm; the other bore the muted glint of a Metropolitan Police badge. Rain dripped from his dark coat without inviting warmth. "Adrian," he said, voice deep, steady, commanding—like a river cutting through granite.
"Mr. Richards," Adrian replied, stepping aside and attempting normal warmth. His voice felt different now—toned by memory, by ritual, by knowledge far beyond the mundane.
"Bit late this morning," Richards said, offering a tight nod. "You in one piece?" He wiped rain from his coat and slipped off his gloves. The practicality of his gestures reminded Adrian that Richards still belonged to a world entirely separate from the one he now inhabited.
"Barely," Adrian admitted, offering a weak grin. "Strange night." He moved aside to let Richards in, feeling his intuition sharpen. Distant, subtle: a whisper at the edge of his senses, hinting—watch, listen.
Richards stepped inside. His coat left dark patches on the floor, and the scent of wet wool and distant rain lingered. He looked around—doors, windows, furniture—a house once shared with his father. Shared with better days. "Still feels like home," Adrian added, voice low.
Richards's gaze lingered in the hallway before brushing back to Adrian. "It did," he said. "But ghosts don't always stay friendly." He cleared his throat. "Listen, I've come on business. But… I wondered how you're doing. With the house and all that."
Adrian led him into the kitchen, motioning to a chipped kettle on the stove. He'd ritualistically prepared it before Richards arrived—to ground himself. "I… I think I'm ready to move on."
Richards raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Adrian poured boiling water over tea leaves, inhaling the steam. "I'm going to sell the house. Start fresh somewhere else."
Richards leaned against the counter, expression unreadable. "That's a big step, son. But maybe it's for the best. Too many memories in that place… too many what-ifs."
Adrian nodded, but beneath his polite smile, tension simmered. That Seer's inkling whispered something off—an unease he couldn't quite name yet. Richards's voice was comforting, but the sentiment felt too neatly packaged. Too rehearsed. He scanned Richards's posture, the slight stiffness in his stance, the tension in his jaw. A note in the Seer's mind hit, like a dissonant chord.
He sipped his tea, letting the warmth settle. "Yes," he said slowly. "Time to move forward."
Richards nodded, eyes flicking down the corridor. "I've got a shift report to attend. You sure you're alright here?"
Adrian stood, handing Richards his hat. "I will be. Thank you for everything, Mr. Richards."
Richards took the hat, touched it to his chest, and smiled—this time softer, a hint of distance in his eyes. "Your father would be proud." He stepped back, straightening his coat.
Adrian walked him to the door. Richards paused briefly, thumb brushing against the wood, as if he wanted to say more. But he only nodded once, turned, and walked into the mist-draped street.
Click.
The door closed, and silence returned—but this time it felt charged, full of secrets.
Adrian stood frozen for a moment, listening to his own breathing. That prickling anxiety tightened around his heart again. Something about Richards didn't sit right. Silently, he moved to the drawer by his desk and retrieved his father's old brass pocket watch. The chain coiled and gleamed in the dim light. It felt more alive than before—as if it remembered power.
He closed the curtains, leaving only a single candle flickering in the corner. The kettle's whistle receded; distant church bells tolled in the misty dawn. Adrian sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed. He untied the thread and held the watch between thumb and forefinger.
"Will following Mr. Richards reveal the truth about my father's death?"
He set the watch swinging gently. In the silence, his heartbeat echoed in his ears. It spun—first slowly, then with conviction—in a clear clockwise circle.
Adrian's breath quickened. Yes.
He opened his eyes, the shrine of candlelight flickering against the walls. Spirit Vision pulsed within him, tuning him to subtle energies. He felt Richards—not near him, but present, like a distant star pulling on gravity. The man who'd taken his father's place. The man who might hold the answer.
Rising, Adrian paced across the room, each step measured. Fog drifted against the window. He stared at the watch, watching the faded engraving on its back: "To my son." A reminder and a burden.
He whispered, voice steadying: "Then you and I are going to meet again."
Despite the damp dawn outside, a heater hissed behind him. He shivered, not from cold but from anticipation—of investigation, confrontation, unlocking the mysteries that surrounded his father's death.
He poured another cup of tea, setting it on the desk beside his open notebook—the beginning of a new chapter. The yellowed page held two words: "Find Richards."
Outside, London stirred beneath the fog, unaware of the quiet storm forming within one solitary room. And Adrian—no longer just a frightened orphan in 1925—sat by the candlelight, determined to uncover the threads that bound destiny, magic, and betrayal in a world he was only beginning to know.