(Eden)
The rain had finally stopped, but the sky still carried its color—slate gray, heavy, uncertain. Eden stood in the front room of the Velvet House, sleeves rolled, dust in her hair, the faint taste of metal on her tongue from the nails she'd been pulling out of the wall.
She told herself the hammering steadied her. It kept her from listening too closely to the creaks of the house, to the soft breath of wind that slipped through unseen cracks. Every sound here felt like a whisper that almost formed words.
She'd promised herself that she would keep to work—fix the wiring, clean the parlor, scrub the years from the floor. But by noon, she found herself staring again at the piano. The sheet that covered it looked like a shroud.
She reached for it, meaning only to lift a corner. The moment she did, the faintest chord escaped—as if the instrument had been holding its breath all these years.
Then a knock came, sharp and deliberate.
She jumped, heart in her throat.
When she opened the door, Malcolm stood on the porch, tool bag in hand.
"Morning," he said. "Thought I'd make good on my offer to look at the foundation."
Eden blinked. "You weren't kidding."
"About work?" He smiled. "Never."
She stepped aside to let him in. The faint scent of sawdust and rain clung to him, grounding the space in something solid.
He crouched near the baseboard, running a hand along the cracked wood. "This place has history."
"So I've heard."
"Some of it good." He looked up, eyes steady. "Some of it… less so."
Eden folded her arms. "Let me guess—more ghost stories?"
He gave a short laugh. "Depends on what you call ghosts. Around here, folks say the house keeps Valentine's secrets."
"Valentine's secrets?"
He sat back on his heels. "Every February, the light in this place turns blue. Started the night of the fire—same year my family lost half of what we owned. People say it's the mark of a promise broken on Valentine's Eve."
She felt a chill trace her spine. "And you believe that?"
"I believe in patterns." He tapped the floorboard once. "Every mark tells a story."
Eden looked at him, at the careful way he worked, at the way he seemed to know when not to look at her. He carried his silence like armor, and for reasons she couldn't name, she wanted to see what was underneath it.
(Malcolm)
The foundation was worse than he expected—rot creeping along the beams, water damage near the cellar door. But it was the smell of ash that unsettled him most. Old ash, faint but unmistakable.
He brushed his palm over the wall, and a thin line of soot came away.
"Do you smell that?" he asked.
Eeden nodded. "Smoke."
"It shouldn't still be here."
He straightened, eyes narrowing toward the staircase. "You said you haven't been in the cellar yet?"
"Not yet. The lock's rusted."
"I can cut it."
Something in her expression wavered—curiosity mixed with the instinct to run. "What are you expecting to find?"
He hesitated. "Answers."
She gave a small, humorless laugh. "That's a dangerous thing to look for."
He met her gaze. "So I've heard."
(Eden)
By late afternoon the light had shifted, gold trying to break through the clouds. Malcolm had repaired two joists, replaced a section of trim, and spoken maybe twenty words that weren't about the structure. But every silence between them seemed charged, as if the house itself was listening.
When she brought him coffee, he accepted it with a nod. Their fingers brushed; she felt it like a spark up her arm.
He didn't look away this time.
"You're not like most people who move here," he said. "Most come chasing quiet. You look like someone who's trying to out-run it."
She studied him. "And you look like someone who's trying to rebuild it."
For a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted—almost a smile. Then he set the mug down and motioned toward the back hall. "Show me the cellar door."
(Malcolm)
The lock gave way with a dull crack. The hinges moaned as he pulled the door open. A rush of cool, stale air rose up, carrying the faint sweetness of burnt paper.
He switched on his flashlight. The beam caught the curve of old stairs leading into darkness.
"Stay here," he said automatically.
But she was already behind him. "Not a chance."
He didn't argue. Together they descended, their footsteps echoing. The cellar was small, stone-walled, the air thick with dust. In the corner, half-buried under debris, sat a tin box blackened by fire.
Malcolm crouched, pried it open. Inside were scraps of ribbon, charred photographs, and a single folded letter tied with red thread. The paper had fused at the edges, but the first line was still legible:
"To my Valentine, forgive the promise I could not keep."
Eden drew in a breath. "Who wrote it?"
He shook his head. "Hard to say. Could be decades old."
She reached for the letter, but he caught her wrist gently. "Careful. It's fragile."
Her eyes met his—dark on dark, the space between them suddenly alive with something that felt older than both of them.
Outside, the church bell began to toll six times, the sound rolling through the ground like thunder.
Eden pulled her hand back slowly. "Whatever happened here… it's not finished."
Malcolm nodded once, the weight of her words settling into him. "Then I guess we'll finish it."
(Eden)
By the time he left, twilight had bled into the sky. She stood on the porch watching him cross the road, the fog rising again around his shoulders.
When he reached his own gate, he paused and looked back. The faintest light from her porch caught his face, softening the sharpness in his features. He lifted a hand in a brief, almost reluctant wave.
Eden didn't wave back, but she smiled. Just a little.
Inside, she placed the burned letter on the piano. The words stared up at her, heavy with unfinished music.
In the distance, someone began stringing red lanterns along Main Street. Their glow flickered through the mist like tiny beating hearts.
(Malcolm)
He watched the lanterns too from his window, each one reflected twice—once in the glass, once in memory.
Raven Hollow was preparing for its Valentine's festival, pretending it didn't remember how the last one ended.
He set down his glass and whispered the words he'd read on that charred paper.
"To my Valentine…"
And for the first time in years, he wondered if forgiveness might be possible—not from the dead, but from the living.