Reaper's Obsession

Emma’s POV I sat by the window in silence, watching the clouds scatter across the sky like torn pieces of gray silk. The plane hummed beneath me. My heart whispered the name of the city I had left behind so long ago… Madrid. Thirteen years had passed since I last saw her streets. I was only ten when we left—naïve enough to believe the separation was temporary. That one day, my parents would bring me back. But childhood lies have sharp teeth. And now… I return not as a child, but as a woman carrying the ashes of broken dreams. We visited Spain only four times since then, and even those visits were like prison sentences. Locked inside the family estate, hidden away under the excuse of “security risks.” I believed it, because I always believed them. Until my grandmother died. She was the only warmth I had ever known in a house made of ice. Losing her left me hollow—an empty shell dragging itself through the motions of life. Depression devoured me, until one reckless decision rose from the ruins: I would go back. When I told my mother, she refused. She said Madrid was no longer safe. My father? He gave me his usual silence, his indifference cutting deeper than any blade. It is a strange, bitter thing… to feel like a stranger in your own family. Even when I graduated, they never came. They sent my younger brother instead. Santiago—ten years my junior, yet carrying the kind of love and approval I had never been granted. A voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We are preparing to land.” I inhaled deeply, pressing my forehead to the window. And there it was—Madrid, a city absent from my eyes for years, but never from my heart. I missed my childhood. I missed the ghosts I left behind. I missed Daniel… and Miguel. --- The moment my feet touched the ground, loneliness washed over me. No one waited at the gate. For a foolish second, I imagined someone might come— a driver, a servant, anyone. But no one came. Dragging my suitcase, I hailed a taxi. The driver stiffened when I spoke the address. Not surprising. Our neighborhood was nothing like the rest of Madrid. It was an island of gold, where silence had weight, and the families who lived there pulled the strings of politics and power behind velvet curtains. An hour later, the car stopped. The mansion stood before me exactly as I remembered—only larger, darker, heavier. Marble columns black as midnight. Iron gates carved with ancient sigils. A garden too perfect, too lifeless, like a painting drained of color. I paid the fare, stepped out, and pulled my suitcase closer. Silence. No footsteps. No voices. Even the air seemed afraid to breathe. I reached for the gate— and it opened on its own. A soft creak, like the house itself was groaning awake. My heart jumped, but I forced my legs forward. The stone path stretched ahead, lined with flowers that bloomed without joy. It led me straight to the door. It was ajar. Waiting. My hand trembled as I pushed it open. The breath in my lungs froze. And what I saw inside… made the blood in my veins turn to ice.