The room they gave her was beautiful. That was the first thing she noticed. The second was how utterly silent it was.
It was on the second floor of the main villa, with a small balcony overlooking the courtyard she'd just crossed. The walls were a soft, warm white, the floor cool terra cotta tiles partially covered by a woven rug in faded blues and golds. A large bed with a wrought-iron frame and crisp white linen. A simple wooden desk. A wardrobe. A door leading to a small, pristine bathroom. Sunlight streamed in, dappling the floor. It was the kind of room featured in luxury travel blogs—serene, tasteful, calming.
It felt like a stage set.
Yasmine dropped her duffel bag on the rug with a soft thud. The sound was swallowed by the quiet. No hum of city traffic, no murmur of neighbors, no creak of old pipes. Just the distant, rhythmic sigh of the ocean, a sound so constant it began to feel like silence itself.
She walked to the balcony, her fingers brushing the rough stucco of the railing. The courtyard below was a geometric dream of lavender hedges, citrus trees in large terracotta pots, and those meandering shell paths. From up here, she could see the full layout. The main villa formed a U-shape around the courtyard. The west wing—the one with the marked door—stood separate, connected by a covered walkway that looked newer than the rest. The entire compound was nestled against a cliff edge, the land dropping away to a ribbon of turquoise sea far below. The walls, she confirmed, were indeed topped with that smooth, curving glass. Impenetrable. Beautiful.
A movement caught her eye. Rafe was down in the courtyard, talking to an older man with a stooped posture and a gardener's wide-brimmed hat. The older man was nodding, pointing toward a bed of wilted roses. As Rafe listened, he crossed his arms. Even in a simple stance, there was a latent power to him, a coiled readiness. The gardener—David, she would learn—said something, and Rafe's head tilted slightly. He didn't smile, but the intensity of his attention seemed to soften by a fraction. He gave a short, sharp nod, and David shuffled off toward a toolshed.
Rafe remained, his gaze lifting, sweeping across the upper floors. Yasmine instinctively stepped back from the balcony's edge, into the shadow of her room. His eyes didn't linger on her window, but she felt seen anyway. A flush crept up her neck. It was absurd. He was just checking his domain.
A soft knock at her door made her jump.
She opened it to find a woman about her own age, with a friendly, open face and a streak of blue in her curly brown hair. She held a stack of folded towels.
"Hi! Welcome. I'm Liana," she said, her voice warm. "Rafe said you might need these. And to show you to the dining hall for the midday meal. It's in an hour."
"Thank you," Yasmine said, taking the towels. They smelled like sunlight and rosemary.
Liana leaned against the doorframe, her curiosity benign. "So, where'd you come in from?"
The practiced lie slipped out smoothly. "The city. Up north. Needed a… change of pace." It was the story her file would tell, if anyone looked.
"Don't we all," Liana said with a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Well, this is definitely a change of pace. Rules are simple, really. Meals are at eight, one, and seven. The kitchen is open for tea and fruit whenever. The library's in the east wing—lots of old novels and travel books. The south lawn leads down to the cliff path. You can walk it, but not past the red marker stone. The rocks get slippery."
"No swimming?" Yasmine asked, trying to sound casually disappointed.
Liana's smile tightened. "Only with an escort. The currents are… tricky. Rafe's rule."
Of course it was.
"How many of us are here?" Yasmine asked.
"Right now? Six residents, plus staff. David, the groundskeeper. Marta, who cooks. And Rafe, of course." Liana pushed off the doorframe. "It's quiet. Peaceful. You'll get used to it. See you at lunch!"
She left, her footsteps echoing softly down the tiled hallway.
Yasmine closed the door and leaned against it. Six residents. A small, controlled population. She unpacked her meager belongings, placing her few clothes in the wardrobe, her worn copy of The Waves by Virginia Woolf on the nightstand, her toothbrush in the bathroom. Her movements were mechanical. The room absorbed her presence without comment.
At precisely one o'clock, she found her way to the dining hall—a long, airy room with arched windows open to a view of the sea. A large, rustic table of reclaimed wood dominated the space, set with simple white pottery and glasses of iced water.
Four other people were already seated. Liana waved her over to an empty chair. There was an older woman with sharp, intelligent eyes who introduced herself as Elise and was reading a book in French. A young man with a friendly, freckled face and a shock of red hair—Leo, who immediately grinned and said, "The new ghost! Welcome to the haunted villa." And a man in his forties, lean and watchful, who gave a tight nod. "Gareth."
The sixth chair was empty.
Marta, a woman with a kind face and flour-dusted hands, brought out platters of grilled fish, roasted vegetables, and a crusty bread. The food was simple, delicious, and abundant.
Conversation was polite, sparse. Elise asked Yasmine about her reading preferences. Leo made a joke about the seagulls being the real rulers of Virelune. Gareth ate in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking to the doorway.
Rafe did not join them.
Halfway through the meal, the sound of the main door opening had everyone's head turning subtly. Rafe entered, not from the courtyard, but from an interior door Yasmine hadn't noticed. He carried a small tablet in one hand. He didn't sit. He stood at the head of the table, his presence altering the atmosphere like a drop in barometric pressure.
"The weekly supply boat comes tomorrow afternoon," he said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet room. "If you have requests for personal items, give the list to Liana by ten a.m. The satellite connection will be down for maintenance from two to four today. Dr. Anya will hold her sessions in the library as usual this evening."
His gaze traveled over each of them, a brief, impersonal inventory. When it landed on Yasmine, it paused for a half-second longer. "Yasmine. After lunch, come to the office for your orientation."
It wasn't a question. She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry.
He left as quietly as he'd come. The room seemed to breathe again.
"Orientation," Leo stage-whispered, wiggling his eyebrows. "Scary."
"It's just the rules," Liana said, but her tone was light.
"The rules are for our safety," Gareth said quietly, his first words of the meal. He didn't look up from his plate.
After lunch, Yasmine found the office. It was on the ground floor, down a cool, tiled corridor. The door was open.
Rafe was behind a large, uncluttered desk, tapping on his tablet. The office was as sparse and functional as he was: filing cabinets, a large map of the coast on the wall, a single shelf with manuals and logs. No personal touches.
"Close the door," he said without looking up.
She did, the click of the latch sounding final.
"Sit."
She took the chair opposite him. He finally set the tablet down and steepled his fingers. His hands were fascinating—broad, strong, with long fingers, and marked by scars. A thin, white line across the back of his right knuckles. A rougher patch near his left thumb. They were hands that had done things.
"This isn't a hospital. It's not a spa," he began, his flinty eyes locking onto hers. "It's a protected environment. The structure is for your safety. You will adhere to it."
He proceeded to list them, his voice cool and even. Curfew at 10 p.m. All exterior doors locked at that time. No leaving the compound grounds without express permission and an escort. Personal communication devices are to be handed in for "secure charging" overnight; they will be returned each morning. The landline in the common room is for local calls only; all calls are logged. The west wing is off-limits. The cliff path beyond the red marker is off-limits. Swimming is off-limits unless supervised.
"Why?" The word slipped out before she could stop it.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing softly. "Because the world is not a safe place, Yasmine. Not for people like us."
People like us. The phrase hung in the air. What did that mean? People with pasts? People with debts? People who were hiding?
"The Covenant provides sanctuary," he continued, as if reading the questions on her face. "But sanctuary requires boundaries. Breach them, and you compromise not only your safety but the safety of everyone here. Do you understand?"
She understood perfectly. She was in a gilded cage. The bars were just very, very pretty.
"I understand," she said.
"Good." He picked up his tablet again, a clear dismissal. "Dinner is at seven. Marta accommodates dietary needs if you inform her."
She stood, feeling dismissed and somehow chastised. As she reached for the door handle, he spoke again.
"Yasmine."
She turned.
He wasn't looking at the tablet anymore. He was looking at her, and the intensity was back, that unsettling, laser focus. "The silence here… it gets to people. At first. They try to fill it with noise. With questions. Don't. The quiet is part of the healing. Let it be."
It was the closest thing to kindness he'd offered. It felt like a threat.
She nodded again and slipped out into the hallway.
The afternoon stretched, long and empty. Yasmine explored the permitted areas. The library was indeed full of old, benign books. The common room had comfortable sofas, a large fireplace, and the monitored landline phone. The south lawn was lush and led to the head of the cliff path, where a painted red stone indeed marked the boundary. She stood there, the wind whipping her hair, looking down at the dizzying drop to the jagged rocks and the relentless sea. Freedom, right there. Impossible.
She saw David, the groundskeeper, tending to a lemon tree. He glanced up, gave her the same slow, grave nod he'd given Rafe, and went back to his work.
As dusk began to paint the sky in watercolor hues of peach and lavender, she found herself back in her room. The silence was a physical presence. She could hear her own heartbeat. The longing for a voice, for a TV, for any human murmur was so acute it felt like panic.
This was the healing? This muffled, beautiful emptiness?
She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time, she let herself think the terrifying thought: What have I done?
A soft sound made her turn her head.
Rafe was standing in her doorway.
He hadn't knocked. He was just there, a dark silhouette against the softly lit hallway, one shoulder leaning against the frame. His arms were crossed. How long had he been watching?
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She sat up slowly.
"It's the quiet," he said, his voice low. It wasn't an apology for his intrusion. It was a statement of fact. "The first night is always the worst."
"Do you stand in everyone's doorway?" she asked, aiming for levity and landing somewhere near raw nerves.
"No," he said simply.
He pushed off the frame and took a single step into the room. He didn't come closer. He just stood there, looking at her in the gathering dark. "You don't have to fill it. The silence. You can just… exist in it. It won't swallow you."
He said it with such certainty, as if he'd had this same battle and won.
Then, he turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Yasmine was left in the darkening room, her skin tingling where his gaze had touched her, the echo of his voice in the silent air. The cage, she realized, had a keeper. And he was the most fascinating, frightening part of it all.