The Wall Between Us

Chapter 5: The FirstSplit

Elara's POV

I woke to the sound of rain against my windows and the feeling that someone had been watching me sleep. It felt so real that I sat up and scanned the room, but of course, I was alone. Just nerves, I told myself. First night in a strange place, so it was bound to be unsettling.

The digital clock on the nightstand showed 6:17 AM. Too early to be awake, too late to fall back asleep. I made coffee in my small kitchenette and sat by the window, watching the rain transform the neglected gardens into something wilder and more romantic.

Around seven, the piano music began again. It floated through the walls like a ghostly melody. Today, it sounded different, not sad but angry, with notes crashing together violently. It stopped as suddenly as it began, leaving the house feeling strangely empty.

I was finishing my second cup of coffee when Mrs. Holloway knocked.

"Mr. Veyron asked me to show you the rooms he wants you to focus on first," she said. "If you’re ready?"

I followed her through corridors I hadn't seen during yesterday's tour, moving deeper into the main house. The further we got from the east wing, the heavier the atmosphere felt. It wasn't just the darkness, as many windows were boarded up, but something else. A sense of weight, of sorrow pressed down from the very walls.

"Here," Mrs. Holloway said, stopping at a set of double doors. "This was the main parlor. Mr. Veyron thought it would be a good place to start."

The room beyond the doors took my breath away. It must have been magnificent once twenty-foot ceilings, elaborate crown molding, a massive fireplace with a carved mantel that was a work of art. But years of neglect had left it in ruins. The wallpaper was peeling, the hardwood floors were warped and stained, and everything was covered in dust that spoke of years without human presence.

"When was this room last used?" I asked, running my finger along a windowsill and coming away with enough dust to write my name.

"Not in my time here. Mr. Veyron's grandfather sealed off most of the main entertaining spaces before I came."

"Why?"

Mrs. Holloway's face became carefully neutral. "I couldn’t say. Family decisions aren't shared with the staff."

But something in her tone hinted that she knew more than she let on. I was learning that everyone in this house had secrets.

I spent the morning measuring and photographing, documenting the room's state and noting what needed to be done. This work felt familiar and comforting, helping ease the unease I had felt since waking up.

Around noon, I heard footsteps in the hallway and looked up to see Damien standing in the doorway. He was dressed for business today: a charcoal suit, white shirt, dark tie, but somehow he still looked more at home in this Gothic setting than in any modern office.

"How is it?" he asked as he stepped into the room.

"Salvageable. The structure is sound, which is the most important part. The rest is mostly cosmetic damage from neglect."

He nodded and moved to stand beside me near the fireplace. This close, I could smell his cologne, something subtle and expensive that reminded me of cedar and rain.

"This room used to host dinner parties," he said unexpectedly. "My great-grandfather would invite important families from Boston and New York. The women wore their finest gowns, and the men discussed business over brandy and cigars."

"It must have been beautiful."

"It was. I've seen photographs." His voice carried a note of loss that made me look at him more closely. "All of that ended when my grandfather inherited the house."

"What happened?"

For a moment, I thought he might actually tell me. His gray eyes held mine, revealing something raw and painful, but then he stepped back, returning to a more closed-off expression.

"Family tragedy. Nothing that concerns the restoration work."

But I was getting tired of being shut down every time I asked a reasonable question. "Mr. Veyron, I understand this is personal, but if I'm going to do this job right, I need to know what I'm working with. The changes to this house weren't random. Someone had specific reasons for sealing off rooms, changing the layout, boarding up windows. Those reasons might affect how I approach the restoration."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if rooms were closed because of structural issues, I need to know that before I start removing walls. If changes were made for privacy or security reasons, that could inform how we restore the spaces. I'm not looking for family gossip, I need information that's relevant to my work."

He studied me for a long moment, and I had an unsettling feeling that he was deciding whether I could be trusted with whatever he was hiding.

"Very well," he said finally. "But not here. Meet me in the library after dinner. I'll show you what you need to know."

He turned to leave but paused. "Miss Hayes? Be careful in this room. The floorboards near the east wall are rotting. I wouldn’t want you to fall."

After he left, I found myself staring at the doorway where he had stood, trying to understand the warning in his voice. Was he referring to the floorboards, or something else entirely?

I spent the afternoon exploring the rotting section he mentioned. Sure enough, several boards near the east wall were soft with decay. But as I examined them closer, I noticed something odd. The damage didn't seem to come from a leak or general wear. It looked deliberate, as if someone had poured water on this specific area repeatedly over a long time.

Why would someone want to destroy part of the floor?

I was still puzzled over it when Mrs. Holloway appeared with afternoon tea and sandwiches.

"Finding everything you need?" she asked, setting the tray on a dusty side table.

"Mrs. Holloway, can I ask you something?"

She tensed slightly. "Of course."

"The changes to this house when you arrived thirty years ago, had they already been made?"

"Most of them, yes."

"Do you know why the rooms were sealed off?"

She was quiet for so long I thought she wouldn't answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"There was an accident, many years ago. Mr. Veyron's grandfather... he wasn't well toward the end of his life. The family thought it best to limit access to certain areas."

"What kind of accident?"

"I've said too much already." She straightened, her professional facade returning. "Mr. Veyron doesn't like the staff discussing family matters."

After she left, I sat in the dusty parlor, sipping tea and trying to piece together the fragments of information I’d gathered. An accident involving Damien's grandfather. Rooms sealed for safety reasons. A house full of secrets and people who refused to talk.

Whatever had happened here, it was serious enough that the family was still hiding it decades later.

That evening, I made my way to the library with a mix of anticipation and dread. Damien was waiting for me, standing beside the fireplace with a leather portfolio in his hands. He had changed from his business attire into dark slacks and a sweater that made his eyes look more silver than gray.

"Thank you for coming," he said formally. "Please, sit."

I settled into the same chair I had occupied yesterday, watching as he opened the portfolio and withdrew a stack of documents.

"These are the original architectural plans," he said, placing them on the table between us. "And these are the modifications made in 1963."

The modified plans told a story that chilled me. Entire sections of the house had been walled off. Doorways had been bricked up. What once was an elegant design had turned into a maze meant to contain something or someone.

"My grandfather," Damien said quietly, "suffered from what we would now recognize as severe mental illness. Toward the end of his life, he became violent. Unpredictable. Dangerous."

I looked up at him, seeing the pain he was trying to conceal. "What happened?"

"He nearly killed my grandmother. I would have killed her if my father hadn't intervened. The family had the house modified to limit the damage he could do."

"They trapped him here?"

"They protected everyone else from him. Including himself." Damien's voice was steady, but I could hear the weight of his words. "He died in 1965, alone in the rooms that had been designed to hold him."

The implications hit me hard. Those sealed sections weren’t just unused space; they were a prison. A beautifully crafted, architecturally sophisticated prison meant to contain a madman.

"And you want me to restore it," I said slowly.

"I want you to restore it properly. To honor what it was meant to be before..." He gestured at the modified plans. "Before it became something else."

"What about the sealed sections?"

"They stay sealed. Forever."

I studied his face in the firelight, seeing the weight he carried and the fear that never quite left his eyes. "Mr. Veyron, are you afraid you're like him?"

The question hung in the air between us. For a moment, his careful control slipped, and I saw the raw terror underneath.

"Every day," he whispered.

At that moment, I understood why he had hired me, why he lived alone in this Gothic mansion, and why he kept everyone at a distance. Damien Veyron wasn’t just restoring a house.

He was trying to outrun a legacy of madness that he believed was in his very blood.