Elias waited until six forty-five before leaving the storage room.He'd spent the three hours unpacking his duffel bag—a task that took fifteen minutes—and then repacking it. Then unpacking again. Folding and refolding the five shirts, three pairs of pants, and handful of underwear that constituted everything he owned. Arranging them in the small dresser that smelled like mothballs and old wood.The rest of the time he spent sitting on the bed, listening.The mansion had sounds. Footsteps in distant hallways. Doors opening and closing. The hum of heating systems he couldn't access—his room was cold, the radiator under the window stone dead. Voices, muffled and indistinct, speaking in rooms he hadn't seen yet.A family living their lives.He'd tried the oil lamp once, fumbling with matches he found in the dresser drawer. It lit with a smell of kerosene that made his eyes water. The flame cast shadows that made the boxes look like crouching figures. He blew it out after five minutes and sat in the gray light from the window instead.At six forty-five, his stomach cramping with hunger, Elias stood and smoothed down his shirt. He'd changed into his best one—a button-down that was only slightly too small, donated to the orphanage last year. He'd washed his hands three times, scrubbing under his nails until the skin turned red. He'd combed his dark hair with his fingers, trying to make himself look presentable.Trying to look like he belonged.He opened the door and stepped into the hallway.The mansion felt different in the early evening. Warmer somehow, despite the chill in his room. Lights glowed from wall sconces. He could smell something cooking—something rich and complex that made his mouth water and his stomach clench.He walked carefully, trying to remember the way back to the main staircase. The hallway seemed longer now, the doors more numerous. He passed what looked like a linen closet, a bathroom with gleaming fixtures, another bedroom with the door half-open revealing a space three times the size of his storage room.The grand staircase appeared around a corner. Elias descended slowly, one hand on the bannister, trying not to make noise. Trying not to draw attention.At the bottom, he paused. Catherine had said the kitchen. But he didn't know where the kitchen was. The mansion sprawled in directions he hadn't explored, rooms branching off rooms, hallways leading to more hallways.He followed his nose.The smell of cooking grew stronger as he walked past the dining room—the long table now set with crystal and china, candles waiting to be lit. Past the sitting room. Past the library. Toward the back of the house where the walls became simpler, the decor less ornate.Where the family ended and the staff began.He found the kitchen through a plain wooden door marked PRIVATE.Inside, the room was large and industrial—stainless steel counters, commercial-grade appliances, pots hanging from ceiling racks. A woman stood at the stove, stirring something in a large pot. She was older, maybe sixty, with gray hair pulled into a bun and an apron tied around her thick waist.She looked up when he entered, and her expression shifted—surprise, then something softer. Pity, maybe."You must be Elias," she said. Her voice was warm, textured with an accent he couldn't place. "I'm Martha. I cook and clean here.""Hello," Elias hovered near the door, unsure if he should come closer. "Mrs. Blackwood said I should eat here. For dinner.""Yes, she told me." Martha turned back to the stove, but her tone remained kind. "Sit. I'll fix you a plate."There was a small table in the corner of the kitchen, probably where the staff took their breaks. Elias sat in one of the wooden chairs and folded his hands in his lap. The kitchen was warmer than his room, heated by the stove and ovens. He wanted to stay here forever.Martha moved with practiced efficiency, ladling soup into a bowl, cutting thick slices from a loaf of bread, pouring water into a glass. She set everything in front of him with a gentleness that made his throat tight."Eat," she said. "You look half-starved."He was. The soup was rich and creamy, filled with vegetables and chunks of chicken. The bread was fresh, still warm, butter melting into its soft interior. Elias ate slowly at first, trying to maintain dignity, then faster as his body remembered how hungry it was.Martha watched him for a moment, her expression sad, then returned to her cooking."They're having coq au vin tonight," she said, nodding toward the pots on the stove. "With roasted potatoes and green beans. Chocolate mousse for dessert." She glanced at him. "I made extra soup. You can have more if you want.""Thank you," Elias's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "This is really good.""It's just soup." But she smiled a little.He finished the first bowl. She refilled it without him asking. He ate that too, and three more slices of bread, and drank two glasses of water. His stomach, empty for so long, ached with fullness.Martha sat across from him while he ate, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea."How long have you worked here?" Elias asked, needing to fill the silence with something other than the sound of his own chewing."Twenty years. Since before you were born," she studied him over the rim of her cup. "I remember you, you know. When you were small. Before the fire."His heart jumped. "You do?""You were a sweet little thing. Always laughing. Always following your mother around, asking questions," her expression grew distant. "The fire changed everything. They said you died in it. That they couldn't find your body. Your mother..." She trailed off, shook her head. "Well. That was a long time ago.""What happened? With the fire?"Martha's face closed off. "That's not my story to tell. You should ask your parents."But Elias knew he wouldn't. Couldn't. Not when they looked at him like he was something they'd rather not acknowledge.The kitchen door swung open.A young man entered, roughly Elias's age, maybe a year older. He was tall, athletic, with the kind of easy confidence that came from never doubting your place in the world. His hair was styled perfectly. His clothes were expensive—designer jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than everything in Elias's duffel bag combined.He stopped when he saw Elias, and his expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to read. Surprise. Calculation. Then a warm, welcoming smile."You must be Elias," he crossed the kitchen in three long strides and extended his hand. "I'm Julian. Your brother."Elias stood quickly, nearly knocking over his water glass. He shook Julian's hand. Julian's grip was firm, confident, the handshake of someone who'd been trained in social graces."It's good to meet you," Elias said."I can't believe you're really here," Julian's smile widened. "I mean, we all thought—well, it doesn't matter what we thought. You're here now. That's what matters." He glanced at Martha. "Is dinner almost ready? Father's getting impatient.""Ten minutes," Martha said. Her tone had cooled.Julian turned back to Elias, his expression shifting to something like sympathy. "I heard they put you in the storage room. That's rough. But don't worry—it's just temporary. Once you settle in, once they see you're serious about being part of the family, they'll move you to a proper bedroom." He clapped Elias on the shoulder. "You just have to prove yourself, you know? Show them you're a real Blackwood.""I will," Elias said. "I want to. I want to be part of the family.""Of course you do," Julian's smile never wavered, but something in his eyes was hard to read. "Listen, I know this must be overwhelming. New house, new family, new everything. If you need anything—advice, help with school, whatever—just ask. Okay? We're brothers now. We look out for each other."The words should have been comforting. They were the words Elias had dreamed of hearing. But something about the way Julian said them felt off. Like lines rehearsed for an audience."Thank you," Elias said anyway."Are you starting at Blackwood Academy on Monday?"Elias nodded. "That's what they told me.""Great. I'm a senior there. I'll show you around, introduce you to people. Make sure you don't get lost," Julian grinned. "Fair warning—it's a tough school. Very competitive. But you'll do fine. Probably."The probably hung in the air like a question mark."I'll work hard," Elias said."I'm sure you will," Julian glanced at the kitchen door as voices echoed from the dining room. "I should get back. Father hates when we're late." He paused at the door, looking back. "Hey, Elias? One more thing. The kids at school—they're going to ask questions. About where you've been, why you're just showing up now. It might be better to keep things simple. You know, don't overshare. People can be judgmental.""What should I tell them?"Julian shrugged. "Just say you were away. Family business. They don't need to know about the orphanage or any of that. Trust me—it'll be easier for everyone."He left before Elias could respond.The kitchen felt colder without him. Or maybe it had always been this cold, and Julian's presence had just made it seem warmer.Martha stood and began plating the family's dinner with sharp, precise movements. "That boy," she muttered, so quietly Elias almost didn't hear. "That boy is trouble.""What?""Nothing," she carried the plates to a serving cart. "You should go back to your room. I'll bring you something for breakfast tomorrow. Early, before the family wakes.""I can come down—""No," her tone was firm. "Stay in your room in the mornings. Trust me,"She wheeled the cart out of the kitchen, leaving Elias alone with his empty bowl and the lingering smell of food he wouldn't be eating.He sat there for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of the family dinner beginning in the distant dining room. Laughter. Conversation. The clink of silverware on china.Finally, he stood and made his way back through the mansion. Back up the grand staircase. Back down the narrowing hallway. Back to the storage room with its oil lamp and dust and cold.He closed the door and sat on the bed.Julian's words echoed in his head: Prove yourself. Show them you're a real Blackwood. Don't overshare about the orphanage.Be ashamed of where you came from.Be ashamed of who you are.Elias pulled off his shoes and lay back on the thin mattress. His stomach was full for the first time in as long as he could remember, but the fullness felt heavy, uncomfortable. Like he'd swallowed stones.Through the grimy window, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Colors like fire. He watched until the light faded to gray, then to black.He didn't light the oil lamp.In the darkness, he could hear the mansion settling around him. Footsteps in distant rooms. Doors closing. The family going about their evening routines.Martha had said she remembered him. That he used to laugh. That he used to follow his mother around asking questions.He tried to imagine it—a five-year-old version of himself, happy and loved and belonging. But the image wouldn't form. It felt like trying to remember someone else's life.Maybe it was someone else's life.Maybe that Elias had died in the fire, and this Elias—the one who'd spent twelve years in an orphanage, the one sleeping in a storage room, the one Julian told to hide his past—was someone different entirely.Someone who had to prove he deserved to exist.Elias closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come. His mind kept circling back to Julian's smile. To the way it hadn't quite reached his eyes. To the warning about not oversharing.To Martha's quiet words: That boy is trouble.Somewhere in the mansion, a clock chimed nine times.Elias lay in the dark and counted each chime, marking the hours until morning. Until school. Until he could start proving himself.Until he could earn the right to be a Blackwood.The oil lamp sat on the table, cold and unlit, offering no comfort at all.Outside his door, the mansion lived and breathed and laughed without him.And Elias, alone in his storage room, began to understand that coming home might have been a mistake.But it was too late to go back now.He had nowhere else to go.
