Max scurried out, yanking the door open and lunging into the hallway, his eyes scanning the space, alert and instinctive in his intrusion into unfamiliar territory.
The view left him in awe. He was in a huge mansion, and the realisation hit him like a punch to the gut.
"What the—"
Although Max had some memories to familiarise himself with, the realism was another thing altogether. Now he wanted to see more of the mansion belonging to the Knight family.
Max belonged to a fallen noble household whose roots could be traced back to 18th-century Europe.
When wars, battled for glory and other worthless emotions, ravaged their resources and exhausted the family, the elders resolved to leave that godforsaken land, shifting to the newly emerging American continent.
They sought a new beginning for a group nearly forgotten by history and desperate for a fresh start.
Instead of leaving behind something, they grabbed all assets, tangible or intangible, including contracts, gold, artefacts, and antiques, while selling off their lands, which were already plagued with disease or cursed by drought.
Such a family found a haven and gradually, over time, built their strength in the newly formed New York City, contributing and assisting the local government.
Moreover, their aid rewarded them with tangible benefits such as long-term tax exemptions, now exhausted decades ago and land deeds that cemented their foundation.
Certainly, they had built their mansion in the posh area of New York, the infamously pricey Upper West Side, bordering the Hudson River, which elevated its value sky-high.
Max licked his lips, taking in the hallway. The polished wooden floors gleamed beneath a richly patterned carpet whose texture alone spoke of luxury.
The hallway was broad, more than a few meters wide, with walls lined with framed paintings and photographs. Several corners held antiques, seated above richly carved wooden furniture or mounted on sturdy wooden brackets.
He wandered through the hallway. His steps were light, gliding him forward, as he slowly admired each frame and artefact with growing awe.
Being a layman, Max hardly knew the exact price tags, yet he understood that their history might date back to Europe long ago.
His steps paused at a grand staircase, spiralling down with elegance. That was a higher level of wealth altogether.
The mansion seemed American in structure, yet heavily influenced by elements of English nobility.
"Master Max. Good morning."
A woman, possibly in her late thirties, with dull blonde hair and freckles adorning her cheeks, clad in a maid's uniform, called out in a surprised, pleasant voice.
'Lily,' the rush of memories informed him.
He nodded to her. "A good morning to you, too, Lily."
Lily hesitated but smiled warmly at him and left for the kitchen.
Max drifted forward, taking it all in. His steps led him to the dining room, furnished with every necessity, yet again elevated to another level of sophistication.
The dining table was spacious enough to accommodate more than twelve people if needed. Few candle stands also around for special occasions.
Such extravagances were beginning to feel like a causal occurs case in his new life.
"Max, let's be seated."
He turned to see Martha leading Lily, who had his breakfast in her hands, carefully stacked on a tray.
Max nodded, accepting her request, and reached to pull his usual chair.
"Not that one."
He froze, frowning in confusion as he tilted his head. Perhaps he just didn't want to understand Martha's remark.
He noticed her gesture. His eyes followed her gaze, landing on the chair in the centre of the long dining table, the one seated higher than the rest, reserved for the head of the family.
He had always seen his father in that chair, commanding the table with quiet authority.
The mere mention of it caused his breath to quicken and his heart to pound.
His eyes moistened. His fingers curled on the chair's edge. He swallowed the coiling emotions choking his throat, afraid they might spill out through his eyes.
He shook away the emerging grief. His eyes met Martha's, who peered at him with quiet resolve, pushing him, encouraging him.
Inhale.
He breathed deeply, pushing back the dark pit inside. With heavy steps, he walked toward the chair. With final strength, careful thought, and internal adjustment, he pulled it out. And finally, he sat in the position once held by his father.
His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the chair's edge. Taking his father's place felt heavier than he imagined, but he didn't flinch.
He closed his eyes, letting the hum of activity anchor him. One long breath later, he opened them, his composure now firmly in place.
Martha nodded with a motherly expression. He chuckled and smiled back.
The next thing he noticed was Lily, her palms covering her mouth, stifling her cries. But the dripping tears—those, she couldn't halt.
He gave her a bittersweet stare. She scurried back into the kitchen, not wanting to show her master such an unpleasant sight.
Max and Martha stared at each other, and both shook their heads with quiet understanding.
Now that Lily had left for obvious reasons, Martha decided not to wait for her and began spreading the breakfast on the table, carefully arranging each dish with practised grace.
With everything set, Max waited quietly. Martha hesitated, even attempting to avoid his gaze…but ultimately, his unwavering eyes pressured her, cleaving her stubborn streak.
"You're too much, Max." She sighed as she took her seat and finally joined him.
Max scoffed. "It's you who's too stubborn. You're not young anymore, Grandma. And you're part of the family, accept it already."
Martha glared at his teasing words but relented at the reasoning. She had always tried to maintain a barrier and refused to cross it… until today. On this day, both had laid their affection bare. There was no longer a need to avoid it. And after that tragedy, they only had each other.
Watching her, Max allowed himself a thin smile.
He unfolded the napkin, placed it neatly on his lap, and straightened his posture before picking up the fork and knife.
His movements were precise and deliberate, a reflection of the refined dining etiquette he had inherited from his memories.
His gaze fell on the light but healthy breakfast before him: an omelette, a fresh fruit platter, a small bowl of yoghurt, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
It was a simple yet satisfying spread, fulfilling his need for a lighter meal. Martha always seemed to know what the family needed.
With measured, steady movements, Max began eating. He took small bites, savouring the balanced spices in the omelette and the natural sweetness of the fruit.
Each sip of orange juice refreshed his palate. And for a brief moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the flavours of it all, the tangy taste and the well-blended spices.
Though these dining manners were new to him, the memories and minuscule practice aided him as he followed.
The upbringing of the previous owner had made these routines second nature.
Still, there was quiet pleasure in mastering them again, as if he were reclaiming a lost piece of himself.
"Aunt Carla's cooking never lets me down," he praised aloud.
Martha hummed along. "I'll tell her. She'll be glad."
He glanced at Martha, subtly checking on her. Her eyes wandered during the meal. He asked gently, "What's wrong, Grandma?"
Martha squinted at him and said, "That girl, Lily. Always skipping work. How can someone her age be so childish?"
A chuckle escaped Max, remembering the chirping maid always talking endlessly in his memories.
"She must be helping Aunt Carla," he said with a smirk. Lily should thank him later.
Martha scoffed, her gaze fixed on him. "Carla avoids her daughter-in-law in the mansion. Don't pull her into this mess. Carla's professional to the core."
Max coughed lightly, dodging her glare. He muttered under his breath, "Like you…" His voice was too low even to be called a whisper.
"You said something?"
Martha's voice froze him. He pushed his head down toward the food with complete focus and blurted, "Nothing at all! You must've been hearing things!"
He couldn't even meet her petite, glaring eyes; he already felt the chill on the back of his head.
"You're also learning from her." Martha shook her head tiredly.
Max exhaled in relief, a playful grin tugging at his lips. They both focused on their meal, the only sound in the grand hall now the quiet clinking of fork and knife against porcelain.
….
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