Lucian Lowell hated the smell of ash.
Even after forty years, it still lingered around the ruins of the old Lowell manor — a faint bitterness mixed with sea air. The house sat at the edge of a cliff in Burblue's countryside, overlooking a stretch of gray ocean that was always cold, even in summer. Everything here felt like it had stopped breathing decades ago: the warped fences, the soot-streaked statues in the garden, the blackened frame of the house itself.
He stood in the overgrown driveway, shoulders tense beneath his jacket, watching the workers unload cleaning supplies from the van. The sky was dull, the air thick with humidity. "Why are we even doing this?" he muttered.
His mother, who was already carrying a bucket toward the front steps, didn't look back. "Because your grandfather wants the manor cleaned before the renovation starts."
"It's a ruin," Lucian said. "They should've just torn it down."
"He doesn't want it torn down," she replied, wiping dust from her hands. "He wants it restored. Your uncle's ashes are coming home next month."
That shut him up for a moment. He hadn't known Lance Lowell— his mother had married into the family long after everything happened — but his name had hung over the household like a ghost story. When Lance died earlier this year, his father, Lucian's grandfather, requested that his ashes be scattered from the cliff behind this house. Grandfather had also taken it as a sign: after forty years, it was time for the family to return to the original family home.
Lucian thought it was a terrible idea. Some things shouldn't be brought back.
He glanced at the manor. Most of the western side had collapsed, but the eastern wing still stood though walls blackened, windows empty, roof bowed under the weight of time. A single tree grew through the courtyard, its roots cracking the pavement. It felt less like a home and more like the memory of one.
By noon, he was sweeping debris from a narrow corridor where the wallpaper had long since curled away. He found fragments of china, melted glass, and the twisted skeleton of a piano. He didn't know why this place made him uneasy. Maybe it was the silence, or the way the burned ceilings creaked when he breathed too loud.
The workers were busy outside, so when he noticed a half-hidden door behind a broken shelf, he opened it. The handle was stiff with rust. A gust of stale air hit him as the hinges gave way.
Behind the door stretched a narrow path, overgrown with weeds. It led downhill toward a small, weathered cabin tucked between two pines. The building was sagging but intact, untouched by the fire. Curious, Lucian brushed aside branches and pushed his way in.
The cabin smelled of dust and salt. Old furniture crouched in the corners — a wooden chair, a crate of books, a cracked window letting in weak light. On the table sat a few scattered things: a rusted oil lantern, a cup turned on its side, and a photograph framed in glass so scratched he could barely see the image.
He wiped the glass with his sleeve.
Two young men looked back at him from another time. His eyes went first to the one on the right — laughing, bright-eyed, face open and familiar in a way that made his stomach twist. He looked just like Lucian. Just like the photos his mother kept in the attic of his uncle Lance, age seventeen.
Beside him stood another boy, dark-haired, with a quiet kind of charm. Someone had scribbled a name on the bottom edge of the photo in blue ink: Ellis Whitmore. The two were close, shoulders touching.
Behind them, half-obscured by shadow, stood a third figure. Slightly taller, his face hidden by a cap pulled low. He was holding a lantern, its light reflecting faintly on his chin. Lucian couldn't see the man's eyes, but there was something oddly deliberate about his stance, as though he were posing, aware that someone, someday, would look too closely.
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That evening, Lucian brought the photo to the living room, where his mother was sorting through a box of tarnished silverware. The air smelled of metal and old smoke.
"Do you know who they are?" he asked, setting the frame down.
His mother adjusted her glasses. "Oh! That's your uncle. And Ellis Whitmore…his friend." Her expression softened. "They were inseparable since childhood."
"So, they knew each other before the fire?" Lucian asked.
She nodded slowly. "It started that August. Lance argued with your grandfather. No one knew what it was about. Though some say it was about school, others say it was about Ellis. That night, he tried to run away with him."
"And then?"
Her voice lowered. "They were found hours later. Lance came home with your grandfather. Ellis was… already gone."
Lucian felt the words settle in the pit of his stomach. "He killed him?"
"No." She shook her head quickly. "It was proven he didn't. The people who found them said there were no signs of a fight. It was like Ellis just… fell asleep and didn't wake up." She looked down at the photo. "Lance was devastated. He didn't speak for days. Then, one night, he took a lantern and—" she hesitated—"lit the manor on fire. They said he wanted to destroy everything that reminded him of Ellis."
"Did he ever explain why?"
"No. After that, he left. Moved abroad, changed his name, never came back."
The old maid, Mrs. Hu, who had been dusting near the window, made a small sound. "That's not the whole story," she said.
Lucian turned to her. "You remember that night?"
"Not well," she admitted. "But I remember the talk. People said it wasn't just the two of them. That it was not just Master Lance and young Ellis." She glanced at the photo. "They said there was a third boy. A stranger perhaps. When Ellis was found by the seaside, there was another body nearby."
His mother frowned. "That's nonsense, Mrs. Hu. The police would have—"
"They said it was animal remains," the maid said, her tone quiet but sure. "But I remember the undertaker saying it wasn't. He said it was human. A young man, maybe seventeen as well."
Lucian looked back at the photograph. The man behind them. The cap. The lantern. A shiver crept up his spine.
"You think this is him?" he asked, tapping the glass. "The third person?"
Mrs. Hu leaned closer, squinting. "I can't say. But that night, some people swore they saw a light moving through the woods. People speculate that it must be either the young master making his escape or the third person."
The old clock on the wall ticked softly. No one spoke for a long time.
Finally, his mother took the photograph and set it aside. "Enough of that. Old stories only bring bad luck. Finish sweeping the east wing before it gets dark."
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By dusk, the workers had gone home. The air inside the manor was cooler now, shadows stretching long across the floor. Lucian wandered back toward the cabin, drawn by something he couldn't name.
The lantern on the table hadn't moved. Its brass handle gleamed faintly in the dying light. When he reached out to touch it, the metal felt cold — colder than it should have been after sitting all day in a warm room. He frowned and stepped back.
For a moment, he thought he saw his own reflection in the lantern's glass. But the face looking back wasn't quite his. The eyes were sharper, older…and they were smiling.
Lucian blinked, and the image was gone. Only darkness remained in the glass.
He turned away quickly, heart thudding, and told himself it was nothing. Maybe it was just his imagination, just the trick of light through the trees. But as he closed the cabin door, a faint flicker came from inside.
The lantern had begun to glow.