The rain came down in a steady rhythm, tapping against the tall arched windows of the mansion. It was the kind of night that pressed against the walls, wrapping around the estate like a shroud. The darkness beyond was endless, swallowing the town below and bleeding into the vast hills that framed the property. The mansion itself stood atop the highest hill, a silent guardian over Loron, its blackened towers rising like skeletal fingers toward the storm-laden sky.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of aged wood, candle wax, and the lingering perfume of a woman who no longer walked these halls. The corridors stretched endlessly, their ornate rugs muffling even the faintest footfalls. But there was no one moving about. No laughter echoing through the grand halls. No soft humming from the parlor. No delicate clinking of teacups in the sitting room.

Elliott sat by his bedroom window, his blue eyes staring out at the nothingness beyond. The candlelight flickered beside him, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. He hadn’t left this room much since it happened—since she disappeared.

It had been a month now. Thirty long days. The town had begun to move on, as if she had never existed at all. A few neighbors whispered about it, murmuring their sympathies when they passed him on the street, but none of them truly cared. His father had dismissed it entirely, throwing himself into his work with a cold efficiency that made Elliott’s skin crawl.

And then there was Dyllan.

The old butler had been with their family since before Elliott was born. He had always been there—steady, reliable, unwavering. And yet, even he would not speak of her disappearance. He would not answer Elliott’s questions. He would not look him in the eye when he asked about the investigation.

“You must eat, Young Master,” Dyllan’s voice came from the doorway. It was soft, but firm, the way it always was when he was trying to coax Elliott out of his thoughts.

Elliott did not turn. “I’m not hungry.”

“You have not eaten in two days.”

The rain outside blurred against the glass, like ink bleeding into water. Elliott rested his chin against his knee, pulling himself further into the corner of his window seat. “When do you think they’ll find her?”

There was silence.

Then a sigh. The sound of footsteps as Dyllan entered the room fully, his old bones creaking as he lowered himself into the chair across from Elliott’s bed.

“I do not know, Young Master,” Dyllan admitted. His voice was tired, weighted with something that Elliott could not place. “But the police have not stopped searching. Her face is in every newspaper. Someone will find her.”

Elliott finally turned his gaze toward the butler. His throat burned with unshed frustration. “She’s been gone for a month, Dyllan. Not a day. Not a week. A month.” His voice cracked, his fingers curling against his arms. “Shouldn’t they have something by now? A clue? A lead? Anything?”

Dyllan closed his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself. When he opened them again, they were unreadable. “These things take time.”

Elliott scoffed. He hated that answer. It was the same one his father gave. It was the same one everyone gave.

But he knew—deep down, in the marrow of his bones—that they weren’t telling him something.

They knew.

And they were keeping it from him.

Dyllan stood slowly, placing a hand on the armrest to steady himself. “I will inform your father that you are not hungry. But I will bring you food later. Whether you eat it or not is your choice.”

Elliott didn’t respond. He merely watched as the old man made his way to the door, his shoulders sagging slightly as he shut it behind him.

And then, once again, he was alone.

The house was quiet now. Too quiet. It had been this way ever since his mother disappeared. The laughter, the warmth—the life—had been stripped away, leaving behind nothing but an empty shell of what once was.

Elliott slid out of his window seat, his bare feet making no sound against the cold wooden floor. He moved toward his wardrobe, pulling it open to retrieve his coat. He didn’t know why, but he needed to leave. Just for a little while. The air in here felt too thick, too suffocating.

He grabbed a bowler hat from the shelf, slipping it over his golden hair before tugging on his overcoat. His fingers moved with practiced ease, buttoning it up as he moved toward the door.

He would go to the florist.

It was a habit now—a ritual, almost. Every few nights, he would sneak out and buy the same flowers his mother always loved.

Purple hyacinths.

They were an apology. A silent plea. A memory of something he could no longer hold onto.

As he reached for the door handle, a voice cut through the silence.

“Young Master.”

He froze.

Turning slowly, he found Ava standing at the bottom of the stairs. The young caretaker had been with them for years, a close friend of his mother’s. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a loose braid, her sharp hazel eyes filled with something he couldn’t quite name.

“Are you going out again?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Elliott hesitated, but nodded. “I won’t be long.”

Ava’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Dyllan won’t like it.”

“Dyllan doesn’t need to know.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Then I’m coming with you.”

Elliott frowned. “Ava—”

“No arguments.” She was already reaching for her coat, slipping it on with ease. “If you’re going into town this late, you’re not going alone.”

Elliott exhaled sharply, but said nothing more. It wasn’t worth the fight.

Together, they stepped out into the rain, the cold immediately biting through their clothes. The streets were quieter than usual, the storm keeping most people indoors. The gas lamps flickered dimly, their golden light barely piercing through the downpour.

The flower shop was just as he remembered—small, tucked away in the heart of town, its wooden sign swaying slightly in the wind. The old woman behind the counter greeted him with a warm, knowing smile.

“Back for the usual, I assume?” she asked, already reaching for the hyacinths.

Elliott nodded. “Yes, please.”

The woman disappeared into the back, and for a moment, there was only silence. Ava wandered through the shop, her fingers trailing along the petals of various blooms.

“So,” the woman’s voice cut through the quiet. “Have you found her yet?”

Elliott’s breath hitched.

“No,” he admitted. His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t care. “She’s still gone.”

The woman returned, placing the bouquet on the counter. Her eyes softened. “You look just like her, you know.”

He swallowed hard.

“I know.”

As he took the flowers, the woman placed a gentle hand over his. “Your mother was a wonderful woman. Whatever happened—wherever she is—she loved you.”

Elliott nodded, unable to find the words.

He turned, making his way toward the door, but something inside him whispered that this wasn’t over.

That this wasn’t just a disappearance.

That something else had happened to her.

And deep in his gut, he knew—

The answers were inside that mansion.

Waiting for him.

The rain hadn't stopped for days. It was the kind of weather that seeped into your bones, that made the world feel smaller, darker, like it was closing in around you. The fog had rolled in this morning, thick and white, wrapping the town in a haze of wet gloom. It felt like Loron had forgotten what sunlight was. And inside the mansion, it felt the same.

Elliott sat by the window in his room, staring out at the bleak landscape. The mansion, a grand but aging building on the outskirts of town, loomed dark and quiet. Its once-vibrant gardens were now untended and overgrown, the flowers his mother used to tend to now wilting in the rain. Elliott's mind kept drifting back to the same thought, the thought that had consumed him for the past month.

Where had she gone?

His mother.

She had vanished without a trace.

Elliott couldn't remember the exact day it started, the day his mother disappeared. She had been gone for weeks, with his father offering little more than vague explanations. "She's on business," his father would say when Elliott asked about her. "She'll return soon." But Elliott knew better. His mother had never gone on business trips before. She always stayed home, always found a way to be there, whether it was in the garden, in the kitchen, or curled up by the fireplace with a book. But now—nothing.

"Young Master," came a soft voice from the doorway.

Elliott didn't turn to face the butler. He had heard Dyllan's footsteps a moment ago, the old man’s creaky bones announcing his arrival. He wasn’t surprised. Dyllan had been trying to get him to eat for days. "Your father asks that you come down for dinner," the butler added gently.

Elliott sighed, his gaze still fixed on the rainy world outside. "I'm not hungry."

Dyllan's steps echoed softly as he walked into the room and came to stand by the window. The butler's thin frame seemed even frailer in the dim light of the room, his age showing in the slowness of his movements. "It's been days since you've eaten, Young Master," Dyllan said, his voice strained with concern. "Please. You must eat."

Elliott shook his head, pushing himself off the window sill. He didn’t want to eat. He wanted answers. The world outside felt so... empty. And the mansion, once filled with warmth and love, now felt as empty as the town below.

"When do you think they'll find her?" Elliott asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the question that had been on his mind for so long. He hadn't asked anyone else. He hadn’t dared to. But he needed to ask Dyllan—he was the only one who seemed to still care.

Dyllan sighed and ran a hand over his balding head. His shoulders drooped as he searched for the right words. "I... I don't know, Young Master," he said softly. "Your mother’s face is in the papers. The police are searching, but... no one knows where she is."

Elliott’s chest tightened. His heart felt heavy, suffocating. "A month," he whispered bitterly. "It’s been a month. Shouldn't they have found something by now? A clue? Anything?"

Dyllan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lowered himself into a chair beside the bed. The silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable.

"I know it's hard," Dyllan finally said, his voice strained. "But there’s nothing we can do but wait."

Elliott wanted to argue. He wanted to shout that waiting wasn't good enough. But instead, he simply looked at Dyllan, his eyes clouded with confusion and pain.

His father.

The thought of his father made his skin crawl. Dr. Samuel Delacroix was a well-known surgeon in Loron. His expertise in medicine and his skill in saving lives had earned him a reputation, both in the town and beyond. But Elliott hadn’t seen much of his father lately. He’d locked himself in his study, disappearing for hours on end, drowning in the work that never seemed to stop. Even before his mother’s disappearance, Dr. Delacroix had always been distant, always lost in his medical journals, his work, his patients.

Elliott had spent most of his childhood trying to earn his father’s approval, trying to make him proud. But no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough. His mother had been the only one who had ever truly understood him. The only one who had ever seen the good in him. And now... now she was gone.

Elliott stood up abruptly. "I can’t just wait anymore," he said, more to himself than to Dyllan. "I need to do something. I need to find her."

Dyllan’s gaze softened with concern. "Young Master," he began, but Elliott was already moving toward the door.

"I’m going out."

"Out?" Dyllan’s voice quivered. "Where are you going?"

Elliott didn’t answer. He just pulled on his coat, the familiar weight of it settling over his shoulders. He wanted to go to the florist in town, the same place his mother had visited every week. It was a small shop near the center of town, tucked between two larger buildings. He could picture it clearly in his mind—the faded sign that hung above the door, the sweet scent of flowers wafting through the air, the old woman who ran the shop with a quiet grace.

The one place that still felt like it had a connection to his mother.

"Young Master!" Dyllan called after him, his voice rising in panic. "Please. Don’t go alone."

Elliott stopped, his hand resting on the doorknob. He looked over his shoulder, meeting the butler’s eyes. There was a silent understanding between them—one that Elliott couldn’t quite explain. Dyllan had been with his family for as long as he could remember, and although the old man had been quiet since his mother’s disappearance, there was still something about him that made Elliott trust him.

"Just for a little while," Elliott said quietly. "I won’t be long."

Dyllan gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. But he didn’t stop him.

The rain beat down harder as Elliott stepped outside, the chill of the evening air biting at his skin. His boots splashed in the puddles as he made his way down the long driveway. The mansion loomed behind him, its silhouette barely visible in the growing darkness.

Ava, the young caretaker, appeared at the foot of the stairs leading from the kitchen entrance. She had a troubled look on her face, her hands wringing the edges of her apron.

"You’re going out again, Young Master?" she asked, her voice hesitant but not surprised.

Elliott nodded, not bothering to explain. Ava had been around the house for as long as he could remember, ever since he was a child. She was close to his mother, always there when Elliott needed her. She’d never been as distant as the others in the house.

“I’ll be fine, Ava,” Elliott said, trying to reassure her with a weak smile. “I’m just going to the florist again. I won’t be gone long.”

Ava’s eyes lingered on him, a flicker of concern flashing across her face. But she didn’t protest. Instead, she nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Just be careful," she said softly.

Elliott made his way down the cobbled path toward the center of town, his mind swirling with thoughts of his mother. He could still remember the way she would smile when she bought her hyacinths from the shop, the way her eyes would light up as she picked out the perfect bouquet. She had always known which flowers to choose—how to bring the life and color back into the house with something so simple.

The town square was empty, the only sound the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the cobblestones. As he reached the flower shop, the flickering light inside offered a small comfort.

When he pushed open the door, the familiar chime of the bell echoed in the stillness.

"Back again for your usual?" the old woman behind the counter asked with a knowing smile.

Elliott nodded. "Yes, please."

The woman moved to the back to prepare his order, and Elliott wandered around the small, dimly lit shop. He ran his fingers over the delicate petals of the flowers, trying to calm the storm inside his chest.

"You know," the old woman said, returning with the hyacinths in hand, "your mother was always such a bright soul. She used to tell me stories about you. How proud she was of you."

Elliott swallowed hard. "She’s... gone." His voice cracked as the words left his mouth.

The old woman’s face softened. "I know. It’s hard, isn’t it?"

Elliott nodded, unable to find the words. His throat tightened with the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

The woman handed him the bouquet. “Take these. They’re on the house. A gift, for your mother.”

Elliott hesitated for a moment, but then he accepted the flowers with a soft thanks. His hands clenched around the stems, his mind a whirlwind of emotions.

He walked out into the rain again, the flowers held tightly against his chest. And for the first time in a month, he felt something other than grief. Something like hope.

Maybe, just maybe, he would find her.

The mansion loomed in the distance as Elliott trudged back up the hill, his coat soaked through and the rain still relentlessly pouring down. The warmth he had felt in the flower shop had already begun to dissipate, replaced by the familiar chill that seemed to hang around the mansion like a shadow. It was as if the house had an identity of its own—one built upon years of secrets and unspoken truths.

He didn’t want to go back inside.

The thought of returning to the house—returning to the silence, to the vacant rooms where his mother’s presence no longer lingered—made his chest ache. His mind kept racing back to her disappearance, a constant loop of unanswered questions that gnawed at him.

What had happened to her?

As he reached the large wrought-iron gates that marked the entrance to the estate, he slowed his pace. The mansion’s silhouette in the distance only heightened the oppressive feeling settling in his gut. He longed to call out for her—just to hear her voice again, to feel her warm embrace. But all he had now were memories, fading and slipping away, like sand through his fingers.

Elliott’s footsteps echoed on the wet cobblestones as he passed the entrance and approached the massive front door. He paused, his hand hovering over the handle for a moment before pushing it open.

The familiar creak of the door was deafening in the silence of the house. It felt like an announcement—an unwelcome arrival in a place that had never felt truly welcoming.

The inside of the mansion was just as he had left it—still, quiet, lifeless.

Elliott kicked off his wet boots by the door and hung his coat on the hook. He glanced around the hallway as though expecting to see someone—Dyllan, Ava, or even his father—but the house was empty, as it always seemed to be these days. A lump formed in his throat as he felt the weight of the loneliness pressing in.

He didn’t want to be alone anymore. Not with his thoughts, not with his fears. But there was no one to speak to—no one who would understand the pain that he carried inside.

“Elliott?”

His father’s voice—cold and distant—cut through the silence. Elliott flinched, his heart skipping a beat. He turned slowly to see Dr. Samuel Delacroix standing at the top of the staircase, dressed in his usual surgeon’s attire. His shirt was white, his pants neat and pressed, but his eyes were dark, sunken into his face. He looked tired. But then, his father always looked tired.

Elliott didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted his weight uncomfortably, avoiding his father’s gaze. The last thing he wanted right now was to talk to him. But there was no escaping it.

“Did you find anything?” His father’s voice held no warmth, only the usual clinical detachment that Elliott had grown accustomed to.

Elliott swallowed the bitter frustration rising in his throat. “No. She’s still gone. Nothing has changed.”

His father’s eyes flickered with a fleeting moment of something—guilt, perhaps—but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I’m sure they’ll find her eventually,” he said, the words rehearsed and empty. “Now, go to your room, Elliott. I’m busy.”

His father’s indifference stung more than Elliott cared to admit. He had grown used to his father’s coldness over the years, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Samuel Delacroix had never been a nurturing figure. He had been distant, buried in his work, leaving Elliott to fend for himself. And now, with his mother gone, he was more of a stranger than ever.

Elliott’s mouth went dry, but he nodded curtly. “Fine.” He turned away without another word and made his way up the stairs, the weight of his father’s presence lingering behind him.

The second floor was just as silent as the rest of the house. The narrow hallway stretched ahead, and Elliott’s footsteps felt unnaturally loud as he made his way toward his room. His door was slightly ajar, and as he stepped inside, he saw the dim light from his desk lamp casting long shadows across the room.

It was the same room he had grown up in, the same room where his mother had tucked him in at night, where she had whispered stories and lullabies to help him sleep. But now it felt cold, empty.

Elliott dropped the bouquet of hyacinths onto his desk. The flowers looked out of place here, their vibrant colors muted under the harsh lighting of the lamp. He ran a hand through his wet hair and sank into the chair by the window, staring out at the rain-soaked landscape below.

He tried to push away the anger that was threatening to rise inside him. The questions, the doubts, the fear—it was all becoming too much to bear. He had to know what had happened to his mother. He had to find the truth.

A knock at the door broke through his thoughts.

“Elliott?”

It was Ava’s voice, soft and hesitant.

He stood up slowly and opened the door, finding her standing in the doorway with a small tray of food in her hands. Her eyes searched his face with concern, her expression gentle.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” she said, offering him the tray. “You should at least try to eat something.”

Elliott didn’t take the tray. Instead, he looked at her with a mix of gratitude and frustration. “I’m not hungry, Ava.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped inside and set the tray on his desk, her gaze lingering on the bouquet of flowers. She knew. He didn’t have to say a word.

“How are you holding up?” Ava asked quietly, her voice soft. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how to. The pain was raw, a constant ache that had taken root in his chest.

“I just...” Elliott began, his voice thick with emotion. “I just want to know what happened to her.”

Ava’s expression softened, but there was something in her eyes that made him pause. A flicker of... something. She looked as though she wanted to say something, but held back.

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes, Elliott, the truth isn’t always something we can handle.”

Elliott looked at her sharply, confused. “What do you mean?”

Ava hesitated, glancing down at the tray before her gaze returned to him. “I mean that... some things are better left unknown. There are things in this house... things your father has hidden.”

His heart skipped a beat. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly.

Ava took a step back, clearly startled by his sudden intensity. “I—I didn’t mean to upset you. But there are parts of this house, parts of your father’s work, that I don’t think you’re ready to understand.”

Elliott’s mind raced. “What are you trying to say, Ava?”

Her gaze dropped, and she shook her head slowly. “I can’t say more. But be careful, Elliott. You might find more than you’re looking for.”

Elliott’s heart was pounding in his chest. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion. “What are you hiding?” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Ava looked at him one last time, her face a mask of concern. “Just... just be careful. Your father is not who you think he is.”

The words hung in the air, the weight of them settling heavily over him.

Ava turned and left the room, leaving Elliott standing in the middle of the floor, his heart racing with a thousand unanswered questions. His mind was spinning.

What was she trying to warn him about? What had his father hidden? What was the truth that everyone seemed so afraid to speak?

Elliott wasn’t sure if he was ready to find the answers. But he knew one thing for sure—he couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t let his mother’s disappearance be another unanswered mystery in this house of secrets.

He had to know the truth.