THE LAST SECRET OF ROSHAM

When the Past Knocked

George guided Dawn gently toward the couch, his hand steady on her trembling shoulder. She moved like a ghost, her steps uncertain, her breath shallow. When she sat, the old couch creaked beneath her weight, its faded fabric sighing as if it too shared her exhaustion. Her heart thudded so violently that George could almost hear it, a desperate rhythm echoing in the silence of the small, dimly lit room. Her eyes were wide but unfocused, darting from corner to corner as though searching for something that wasn’t there—or perhaps trying to escape what was.

He brought her a jug of water, the surface trembling slightly in his hand. She didn’t reach for it. Her fingers rested limply on her lap, pale and cold. George placed the it on the table beside her and stepped back, unsure whether to speak or stay silent. The air between them was heavy, thick with unspoken grief. He decided silence was kinder.

Bella, their daughter, stood by the doorway, her small frame half-hidden behind the wooden frame. Her eyes, large and curious, flicked between her mother and father. She seemed to understand that something fragile was unfolding—something that words could easily shatter. George caught her gaze and whispered, “Don’t speak to her yet.” Bella nodded, her lips pressing together in obedience, and slipped quietly into the kitchen.

Together, George and Bella prepared breakfast. The smell of frying bread and boiling tea filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of dust and old wood. The clatter of utensils was the only sound that dared disturb the silence. When the meal was ready, George left it on the table untouched. Dawn hadn’t moved. She sat still, her eyes fixed on nothing, her mind lost somewhere unreachable.

Later, George turned his attention to the room where David had stayed—the room that still carried his scent, his presence, his chaos. The sheets were crumpled, the floor littered with scraps of paper, a broken cup, and the faint trace of dried blood near the corner. George worked methodically, scrubbing, sweeping, and wiping every surface until the air felt lighter, though the memory of David lingered like a shadow that refused to leave. Bella helped where she could, her small hands clutching a rag, her face set in quiet determination. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to.

Hours passed before Dawn stirred. Without a word, she rose from the couch, her movements sudden and sharp. She walked to their shared room, her bare feet whispering against the wooden floor. George watched her go but didn’t follow. The door closed behind her with a soft thud. Moments later, the sound of water splashing echoed through the house. She was bathing—furiously, almost violently—pouring bucket after bucket over herself as though trying to wash away something deeper than dirt. Water was scarce, precious, but she didn’t care. The sound of it hitting the floor was relentless, desperate, cleansing and punishing all at once.

Outside, the morning light crept through the cracks in the shutters. The air was thick and hot, the kind of heat that clung to the skin and refused to let go. The streets of Kentaki were unusually clean that day. The usual stench of rot and decay had lessened, replaced by a faint metallic tang that hinted at recent work. No one knew when it had been done—perhaps during the “bonus time,” those late hours when Bradford’s men roamed the streets, silent and efficient, their presence both feared and revered. Some said they were immortal. Others said they were cursed. No one dared to ask.

Then came the sound of hooves—steady, deliberate, echoing through the narrow streets. Camels, tall and tan , their coats gleaming under the harsh sun, pulled a chariot draped in black and silver. The people of Kentaki turned their heads, peering from windows and doorways. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the wind seemed to pause.

Bella rushed to the window, her small hands gripping the sill. Her eyes widened as she saw the procession. The horses knelt, their riders dismounting with practiced grace. The chariot stopped in the middle of the street, its wheels grinding softly against the cobblestones. Inside sat a man-Mark.His face calm,unreadable, but his eyes scanned the surroundings with quiet intensity. He saw the fear in the faces that watched him, the way people avoided his gaze, bowing their heads as if in silent submission. And then, among them, he saw her—a girl looking down from a tall building. Her face was pale, her hair catching the light. Bella. He didn’t know her name, but her gaze held him longer than any other. There was something alive in her eyes, something unbroken.

“Stop here,” Mark said, his voice low but commanding. “We’ll pause the journey. I want to enter that building.” He pointed toward the window where Bella had been. Gwendoline, seated beside the door, nodded and stepped down first. Her boots touched the ground with a soft thud, and she turned to help Mark descend. The other servants waited by the chariot, their faces expressionless.

They entered the building, the air inside cooler, shadowed. The ground floor was vast and dim, filled with the faint smell of damp wood and dust. Their footsteps echoed as they climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor. Gwendoline led the way, her heart beating faster with each step. She didn’t know why Mark wanted to come here, but something in his tone had left no room for questions.

At the top, she paused before a door. The wood was old, the paint chipped. She knocked softly. For a moment, there was no answer. Then, the door creaked open.

Gwendoline’s breath caught. Standing before her was a man she knew—not as a stranger, not as a neighbor, but as blood. His face was older, harder, but unmistakable. The same eyes, the same line of the jaw. Her brother. The boy she had once shared laughter and secrets with, now a man shaped by years of distance and silence. The air between them trembled with recognition, disbelief, and something deeper—something that words could not yet touch.

George’s eyes did not flicker with surprise. They remained still, cold, and unreadable—like the surface of a frozen lake concealing the chaos beneath. His face was calm, too calm, as though the woman standing before him was a stranger and not the sister he had once sworn to protect.

Gwendoline.

The name alone carried the weight of two decades of silence, betrayal, and grief. Twenty years had passed since the fire—the inferno that devoured their parents and left behind only ashes and two terrified children. George had been sixteen then, old enough to understand loss, but too young to bear it. Gwendoline, barely eleven, had made a choice that night that would haunt them both forever.

When the flames died and the world turned its back on them, she turned to Bradford—the demon in human skin, the man whose name was whispered with fear in every corner of Rosham. She had chosen survival over family, comfort over conscience. At eleven, she had sold her soul for bread and shelter, leaving George to fend for himself in the ruins of their home.

Now, standing in the dim light of the old manor, she looked nothing like the frightened girl he remembered. Her eyes were sharp, her posture regal, her presence commanding. The faint scent of incense and iron clung to her clothes—a mark of Bradford’s dominion.

“It’s Mark,” she said softly, her voice smooth but distant. “The visitor from the contemporary world.”

A tall man stepped forward from behind her, his coat brushing against the dusty floor. His eyes scanned the room with quiet curiosity before settling on George. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the doorway.

George hesitated. Every instinct screamed to shut the door, to keep them out, but he couldn’t. Not when one of them was Bradford’s most trusted servant, and the other—a man rumored to wield influence beyond this world. With a stiff nod, he stepped aside, holding the door open.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning wood and damp stone. Bella, who had been sitting on the couch, rose quickly when she saw them. Her small hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her dress. She recognized the man instantly—the guest from the contemporary world, the one everyone in Rosham spoke of with awe and suspicion.

George placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “Go to the room,” he whispered, but before she could move, Mark raised a hand.

“I’m here for the child,” he said gently.

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Gwendoline and Mark took their seats on the worn-out couch, while George and Bella sat opposite them on two wooden stools. The flickering firelight painted their faces in shades of gold and shadow. Mark’s gaze lingered on Bella, studying her features—the curve of her cheeks, the innocence in her blue, monolid eyes. There was something hauntingly familiar about her.

“She’s lovely,” he murmured. “I think I’ve seen eyes like hers before.”

George said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Gwendoline’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and knowing.

A faint creak echoed from the hallway. All eyes turned toward the sound. From the dimly lit corridor emerged a woman. Her steps were hesitant, her breath shallow.

Mark’s heart skipped.

Dawn.

The name formed silently on his lips before she even looked up. When her eyes met his, the world seemed to still. Surprise flashed across her face, followed by disbelief, then something softer—recognition.

She walked toward them slowly, her movements graceful yet uncertain. The years had changed her, but not beyond recognition. Her black hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her eyes—those same blue eyes—held the same quiet strength he remembered.

He rose to his feet, but before he could speak, she reached for Bella, lifting the child into her arms. The little girl nestled against her mother’s chest, her small fingers curling into Dawn’s hair.

“This is my wife, Dawn,” George said finally, his voice steady but low. “And this is our daughter, Bella.”

The room fell silent. Even the fire seemed to dim.

George’s expression hardened. “I don’t know what brings you here, Mark,” he said carefully. “But it can’t just be about the girl. You must have other matters to attend to.”

Mark’s lips curved into a faint, weary smile. “It’s the child,” he insisted. “Am pleased to see that families still exist, even in times like these.”

Dawn’s eyes glistened. The mention of family was a wound reopened.

George looked away. “Families,” he muttered. “We all lost ours. Some of us just pretend we haven’t.”

The bitterness in his tone cut through the air. Mark didn’t respond. He understood. Loss had carved deep scars into everyone in Rosham.

The conversation dragged on, heavy and forced. Gwendoline sat quietly, her gaze distant, her thoughts unreadable. Mark could feel the tension between the siblings—a cold, invisible wall built from years of resentment and silence.

When it was time to leave, George and Dawn escorted them to the main door. Bella clung to her mother’s hand, her eyes wide with curiosity as she watched the strangers disappear into the darkness.

At the threshold, Gwendoline turned once more to face her brother. For a fleeting moment, something human flickered in her eyes—regret, perhaps, or longing—but it vanished as quickly as it came.

The door closed behind them with a dull thud, leaving only the echo of footsteps fading into the night.

Inside, Dawn stood by the window, watching the shadows retreat. George remained by the fire, his hands clenched, his thoughts a storm. The silence between them was heavy, filled with everything they could not say.

Outside, under the pale light, Gwendoline walked beside Mark, her face unreadable. Somewhere deep inside, she felt the weight of her brother’s gaze still burning through the darkness—a reminder that no matter how far she had gone, the past was never truly buried.