Tristan stepped outside and drew in a long breath, letting the morning air fill his lungs. The sun touched his face, warm and steady, and for a moment he simply turned in a slow circle, taking in the view around him.
It wasn't much. But it was freedom.
"I'm free…" His voice cracked as he raised it. "Thank you… thank you, whoever you are!"
At first he had been gullible enough to believe the Steward's words—that freedom was just handed back after two years. But he was not stupid. He knew someone had intervened. His release had come because someone of rank, wealth, and influence had pulled the strings. Not necessarily in that order.
Maybe it was someone touched by his music. Someone who had heard of his disappearance, and, for reasons of their own, wanted him back in the world.
The new servants found his behavior strange. They had unlocked the door, ushered him in, and then waited outside, bowing stiffly.
Tristan stood there awkwardly. He had been given a new life—or perhaps a continuation of the one that had been stolen from him. Yet it didn't feel like resuming where he left off. It felt like starting again from nothing.
Everything around him seemed unfamiliar, and he himself must have seemed just as strange to them.
The house, though called his, felt foreign. Even the sound of the gate closing behind him rang hollow, as though it belonged to another man's memory. The servants were courteous enough, but Tristan could tell they were uneasy. Too practiced, too careful. As if they were here for duty, not loyalty.
When he undressed, his eyes caught his reflection in the hazy mirror. For the first time in two years, he truly looked at himself.
The sight made his stomach tighten. His face was darkened with blemishes, pimples, and scars from neglect. His frame was reduced to skin and bone. No one would think he had just turned eighteen.
He peeled off the old clothes slowly, almost gingerly, as if afraid his skin would come away with the cloth.
The bathroom was modest, but to him it was luxury. Water flowed through improvised spouts that drew from the stream. He turned the crude valve and listened to the tub fill. The sound of running water—his water—was enough to make his throat ache.
The servants had offered to prepare his bath, but he refused. After two years without privacy, he needed this moment alone. No communal pits, no open spaces where men were stripped of dignity. Just himself, water, and silence.
He lowered his thin body into the tub, submerging himself up to his neck. The warmth stung where boils and cuts still lingered, but he welcomed it. He stayed there a long while, savoring every breath.
When he finally reached for his undergarment, he nearly laughed—the fabric was so stiff with grime it could almost stand on its own.
Later, he found a pair of rusty scissors and cut his hair short. The cut was uneven, clumsy, but he didn't care. At least he looked less like a ghost. He shaved as best he could, wincing at the reflection that still did not look like the Tristan he remembered.
Fresh but old clothes were laid out on his bed. He wondered briefly whose they were—a family member's, or perhaps a servant's hand-me-downs. It didn't matter. He was used to wearing what was given.
He searched the dresser for his old clothes, but they were gone. Burned, perhaps, or thrown away. He sighed. Clean, pressed garments, even if borrowed, would do for now.
The shoes Terry had given him were too big and already soaked from the rain. After searching the cabinets, Tristan found an old pair of work boots. They weren't elegant, but they fit.
Better than barefoot, he thought.
From the main door, he could see the entire layout of the cottage. One open space, no partitions except for the small bathroom with a view of the woods. The bed had no sheets, the pillow no cover. He hardly noticed. He had practiced sleeping on stone floors with nothing for years.
His mind wandered back to the camp. Nights were endless there. There was nothing to do but stare at the dark and count your fingers and toes. Eventually, he grew restless and invented games to stay sane.
One by one, he smuggled in tiny stones. Too many would raise suspicion—the guards were quick to assume contraband. So he brought them in little by little, setting them on the floor as pieces for an imaginary board game. His only opponent was himself.
Morning routines were no better. Each man received a single cup of water. No more. No less. You had to choose—wash your face, gargle, or drink. The old miners had taught him tricks: gargle first, then swallow, then wipe the rest across your face.
Food was rationed too, and humiliation was constant. On some days they were given stale bread or burnt rice. On others, they had to settle for rats, frogs, snakes, or insects. Guards ate first. The scraps became the miners' share.
Tristan had never felt so degraded in his life.
Now, back here in the cottage, everything felt like luxury.
Servants brought him dinner, not scraps. Plates and bowls stacked on the table until he lost count. Pork simmered in tangy sauce, chicken fried golden in oil, a dish of fermented greens, fresh fruits, and rice cooked soft and perfect. Five courses, with dessert and drinks.
He ate quietly at first, then faster, unable to stop himself.
Later that night, as he lay down, Tristan heard the faint crooning of a harmonica drifting through the window. Therese must have been playing it for their grandfather.
The sound tugged at something in him. Music had always bound them together—Therese on her harmonica, Tristan with his violin. Each of them had chosen an instrument, each excelling in their own.
Terry had never joined them. He could not play, could not even carry a tune. He had never whistled, hummed, or sung.
One afternoon, Tristan had teased him:
"Are you tone-deaf, Terry? Can't you hear the tune? Come on, sing with us!"
The memory faded into another. A market fair. A weathered piano for sale. The merchant, amused, let their mother play for free. "Good advertisement," he joked.
She was hesitant at first, but soon her hands found the rhythm again. The music drew a crowd, and coins rained into the jar—gold and silver both. True enough, the piano sold that very afternoon.
Their father, Troy, could sing too. He loved songs that told of legacies and old myths. At the tavern, he often sang more loudly drunk than sober. That earned him the moniker: Drunken Troy.
Once, the manor had been filled with music, laughter, and dance. But that ended when Grandpa fell ill. After that, visitors dwindled, and the silence grew.
Tristan lay still, listening to the harmonica's gentle notes. His eyes burned as he closed them.
It was good to hear music again.
It was good to remember he was still himself, even if he felt like a stranger in his own skin.