The house stood alone at the edge of a long, empty road, surrounded by land that seemed to stretch endlessly without purpose. No neighbouring homes, no passing footsteps—just the faint sound of wind brushing against the tall metal gates and the occasional creak of something shifting unseen.
It looked almost beautiful at first glance.
Modern. Clean. Controlled.
Tall glass windows reflected the pale sky, but nothing inside could be seen clearly. The dark exterior gave away nothing, like the place itself had secrets it refused to share.
Inside, the atmosphere was different.
Voices filled the wide room—low, careless, overlapping. Young men gathered in groups, some leaning lazily against tables, others laughing like nothing in the world could touch them. This life was normal to them. It ran in their blood.
Artavius stood among them, but not with them.
He wasn't distant enough to be noticed, yet never close enough to belong. His posture was relaxed, his expression calm, but there was always something held back—something that kept him apart.
"There's work," someone said, drawing attention without effort.
"A girl this time."
A few smirks spread. A quiet laugh slipped through the room.
Artavius didn't react.
"Artavius."
The voice came from across the room. Calm. Controlled.
He looked up.
The man stood there, watching him—not closely, not warmly, just… observing. There was no bond between them, no familiarity. Whatever connection people assumed existed, it wasn't real.
"We need you for this." "when will you learn, this is your time to show courage and prove yourself ."
For a moment, Artavius held his gaze. Then he looked away again, as if the decision had already been made long before the question was asked.
"I won't do it."
The words were quiet, but firm.
A slight shift passed through the room. Not shock—just awareness.
The man's jaw tightened, almost unnoticeable, but it was there. His fingers tapped once against the table beside him before going still again.
"I thought so," he said, his voice even—but colder now.
For a brief second, something sharper flickered in his eyes. Not loud anger. Not yet.
Just the kind that waits.
"Fine. Someone else will handle it."
The conversation moved on, but the air didn't settle completely.
Artavius had already turned away.
The outside air felt lighter, almost unreal after the heaviness inside.
He walked along the quiet road, the distant city barely touching this place. The sky was pale, a soft grey-blue, and the breeze carried a faint chill that brushed against his skin.
Today was his result day.
It didn't matter.
His steps slowed as he reached a familiar street.
The house stood there, just as he remembered—and yet completely different.
The gate was closed. The garden slightly overgrown. The windows dark.
Silent.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
He could almost hear it—the soft laughter, the sound of cups placed gently on a table, a voice calling him inside with warmth he never expected to receive.
They had never treated him like he was out of place.
Never asked questions.
Never looked at him with doubt.
They just… cared.
They had a granddaughter too. Older than him. She never liked him much—her eyes always watching him like she knew something he didn't. He never understood it.
He didn't know where she was now.
Maybe she had moved away.
Maybe she had forgotten.
Maybe that was easier.
They both died on the same day.
That thought stayed longer than anything else.
Artavius looked away first.
He always did.
The cemetery was quiet, wrapped in a stillness that felt almost gentle.
Rows of memorial stones stood across the ground, simple and clean.
Mr. Edward Whitmore
(3rd March 1945 –14th October 2018)
Mrs. Margaret Whitmore
(22nd July 1947 –14th October 2018)
The grass moved slightly with the breeze, and the air carried that faint, earthy scent that never really left places like this.
He walked straight to them.
A single stone.
Their names carved into it.
Below, where their ashes had been laid to rest.
He crouched down slowly and placed fresh roses against the base, the deep red standing out against the pale surface.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, almost like a habit he never broke—
"See… I came."
His voice was soft, steady.
"You always said I forget."
The wind passed lightly, brushing against him, carrying a silence that didn't feel empty.
He stayed there longer than he usually allowed himself to.
There was no noise.
No pressure.
Just a brief, fragile peace.
And then, like always, it faded.
Evilyn crossed his mind next.
The only person in that other house who had ever spoken to him gently. The only one who made it feel less like a place he was trapped in.
She was gone too.
It seemed almost inevitable.
Anyone who ever cared—
never stayed.
Artavius stood up and walked away without looking back.
Part II
Valentine leaned back against the seat, her gaze fixed on the road ahead as the city slowly disappeared behind her.
For once, she felt lighter.
Her suitcase rested beside her, neatly packed, like she had been waiting for an excuse to leave without admitting it to herself.
Her father's words replayed in her mind, but this time they didn't feel heavy.
"Go stay with your grandparents for a while."
She hadn't argued.
Hadn't questioned it.
And now, with the sunlight warming her skin and the quiet road stretching endlessly ahead, she allowed herself to relax.
Maybe this was what she needed.
Distance.
Silence.
A break from everything that felt too controlled.
The steady movement of the car was almost comforting.
Until—
a sharp crack broke through the air.
The car jolted slightly.
Valentine straightened, her brows pulling together.
The driver slowed down, frowning. "Tyre's punctured, miss."
The car came to a stop.
"I'll check. Please stay inside."
She nodded, watching him step out.
The quiet returned—but something about it had changed.
Another sharp sound followed.
Louder.
Another tyre.
Her breath caught.
That wasn't normal.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her phone as her heartbeat began to rise.
Through the window, she saw the driver pause, confusion turning into tension.
Then—
voices.
Close.
Too close.
"Quick. Do it now."
"She's still inside. Don't let her react."
"Open the door."