The etheric lamp on the desk flickered weakly, its feeble light barely pushing back the shadows clinging to the corners of Amon's room. The faint hum it emitted filled the air, a monotonous drone that refused to let him escape into silence. Amon lay on his back, his hands folded across his chest, his body still but his mind a battlefield of fragmented thoughts.
The room felt like a stranger's. Shelves lined with books and curiosities that held no meaning for him loomed above a cracked mirror that distorted his reflection. The fracture turned his face into jagged pieces, unrecognizable to the boy staring back. A faded poster of an automaton blueprint fluttered faintly with a draft sneaking under the door, its edges curling as if trying to escape. Too pristine, too arranged—this was not a room that belonged to him, though it was supposed to.
Each tick of the clock on the wall sliced through the stillness, a reminder of time's merciless march forward. The hands, metallic and cold, seemed louder than they should, grinding like distant gears in the back of Amon's skull. He turned his head to glare at the clock, willing it to stop, but it continued its indifferent rhythm. The shadows creeping along the walls twisted with the flickering light, their shapes unnervingly alive.
Rationality told him it was nothing—tricks of light, the exhaustion of a restless night. Yet rationality faltered in the face of the Mist, that intangible veil that followed him even here. It seeped into his mind, whispering fragmented echoes that pressed against his thoughts like cold, unseen fingers. The Mist never truly left; it lingered, patient and insidious.
By the time sunlight began to seep through the edges of the heavy curtains, Amon swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. Sleep hadn't found him; what little rest he'd stolen felt more like a suffocating weight than relief. The room, now bathed in a muted glow, revealed itself to be both comforting and suffocating. The polished wooden floors gleamed faintly, the air carrying a lavender scent he hadn't asked for.
He dressed mechanically, his hands moving with an instinct that felt foreign, pulling on dark trousers and a shirt that fit too well. Running a hand along the stiff collar, he allowed his gaze to linger on the cracked mirror one last time before stepping out. The grand staircase greeted him with its intricate bannisters carved with leaves and vines—symbols of life, permanence, and beauty, though they felt hollow. He traced one carving with a fingertip as he descended, the smooth wood grounding him in a way the rest of the house couldn't.
Portraits lined the staircase walls, their painted eyes sharp and watchful. One figure in particular caught his attention—a stern man with piercing grey eyes and high cheekbones. Amon halted, his hand gripping the railing tightly. The resemblance was undeniable, but instead of comfort, the familiarity weighed on him like chains. He forced himself to move on.
The dining room buzzed faintly with the tension of family habits. His mother, Clara Grimveil, sat at the table, twisting a napkin in her hands. Her delicate features and slight frame were softened by worry, the streaks of grey in her hair making her seem older than she should. When her gaze found him, she offered a tentative smile, as if afraid too much warmth might break something between them.
"Did you sleep well, Amon?" Her voice was gentle but strained, the question reaching out like a fragile thread.
Amon shrugged as he slid into a chair opposite her, his eyes darting toward the steaming cup of tea in front of him. "It was... fine." The words came out clipped and distant, his tone doing little to bridge the gap she seemed so desperate to cross.
Before she could respond, the door opened, and Elias Grimveil entered the room. His broad shoulders filled the space, his presence commanding even in silence. His dark hair, streaked with silver, was combed back, though the stubble on his jaw suggested a man who had let certain details slip. He nodded at Amon as he took the head of the table, his sharp grey eyes lingering on him just a moment too long.
"Good morning," Elias said evenly, his tone a mix of formality and restraint.
Amon returned the nod but not the greeting, his silence deliberate. His father's gaze lingered for a beat longer before shifting to the steaming coffee Clara placed before him.
Moments later, Kieran Grimveil swept in, the eldest brother moving with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His sharp green eyes, a stark contrast to the rest of the family, gleamed as they landed on Amon. He smirked, his lips curling with faint amusement.
"Still as quiet as ever," Kieran remarked, sliding into the seat beside Amon. "I suppose the orphanage didn't teach you much about manners."
Amon met Kieran's gaze, unflinching. His expression remained blank, his brown eyes sharp and unyielding. Silence, as always, was his weapon of choice.
The rest of breakfast unfolded in near silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery against fine china. Clara made small attempts at conversation, her voice a fragile thread trying to stitch the family together. But Amon's answers were curt and detached, barriers she couldn't breach.
When breakfast ended, Elias motioned for Amon to follow him to the small workshop at the back of the house. The smell of oil and sawdust filled the air, the walls lined with tools arranged in meticulous order. Sunlight poured through a wide window, illuminating a brass automaton perched on a stand.
"Thought you might like to help," Elias said, handing Amon a small wrench.
Amon took the tool without a word, his hands hesitating before finding the screws that needed adjusting. His fingers moved stiffly, as if the motions belonged to someone else. The sensation of being watched was almost tangible; Elias's gaze weighed on him, measuring and assessing every movement.
As the task continued, the silence grew heavier, the unspoken words between them pressing down like a storm cloud. Amon said nothing, letting the clink of metal fill the void.
Later, Amon found himself outside, standing in the garden where Clara was tending to a bed of flowers. Her hands moved deftly, pulling weeds from the soil with practiced ease. The vibrant blooms struggled against the city's smog-heavy air, their edges tinged with brown. She hummed softly, her melody faint and wistful.
"You used to love helping me here," she said without looking up, her voice distant yet hopeful.
Amon's gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where the sprawling city loomed beyond the garden walls. Chimneys coughed black smoke into the sky, their plumes blending with the clouds. He didn't respond, but her words settled uncomfortably in his mind, curling in the shadows of his thoughts like smoke.
The tension of the day came to a head during dinner, the absence of Bob an unspoken specter haunting the table. Clara's strained attempts to spark conversation faltered under the weight of collective grief. Kieran barely spoke, his sharp eyes darting between Amon and their parents, as if dissecting every interaction.
Amon ate mechanically, each bite a hollow motion. The weight of the family's gaze, whether intentional or not, bore down on him, sharpening his already fraying edges.
When the meal ended, Amon retreated to his room. The scent of lavender greeted him like an unwelcome guest, cloying and persistent. He sat at his desk, his fingers brushing against scattered sketches and notes, his mind restless and uneasy. The Mist stirred faintly at the edges of his awareness, a soft, familiar pull that sent a shiver down his spine.
That's when he saw it—a small folded piece of paper lying in the exact center of the desk.
Amon froze, his breath catching in his throat. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against him like an invisible weight. With careful hands, he reached for the paper, unfolding it as though it might shatter.
The script was bold and angular, each letter carved with deliberate precision:
The Watchers know you. Come to the old mill at dawn if you wish to know more.
His pulse quickened, the paper trembling faintly in his grip. Glancing around the room, he found no sign of intrusion—the windows were shut, the door locked. There was no logical way someone could have entered.
And yet, the paper was there.
Folding it carefully, Amon slipped it into his pocket. The weight of it felt heavier than it should, as if it carried more than just ink and parchment. He stood motionless for what felt like an eternity, his mind caught in the undertow of possibilities and dread.
The Mist whispered faintly, a promise laced with danger.
"Tomorrow," he murmured to himself, his voice firm. "I'll find out what you want."
As the lamp's light flickered and died, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen, swallowing him whole.