It had been two years since the war ended, though its echoes lingered in every corner of Sunny's world. The conflict's resolution, abrupt and enigmatic, had left scholars and strategists alike grappling for answers. The neighboring country had withdrawn its forces without warning, their banners disappearing into the mists of their homeland. Whispers of unnatural forces or clandestine agreements flitted through drawing rooms and council chambers, but no answers ever emerged. The silence was as unsettling as the war itself.
For Sunny, life had settled into a rhythm of academic pursuits and quiet evenings at home. His father's return from the frontier had been the most profound change, a source of stability he hadn't realized he had craved until it was there. Willhem's presence was a pillar of strength in Sunny's life, though the man himself carried shadows from the battlefield that refused to fade.
The house, always quiet, had grown quieter still in recent weeks. Sunny attributed it to the winter creeping into the city, the cold settling into every brick and cobblestone. But that evening, as he approached the Willhem residence after a late session at the academy, he felt something different.
The house loomed ahead, its windows dark against the dull glow of streetlamps. Rain drizzled steadily, tapping against his coat and casting a muted rhythm over the silent street. Sunny slowed his steps, his sharp eyes catching something unusual: the door was ajar, its heavy frame swaying slightly in the cold breeze.
His pulse quickened. His aunt Beatrix was meticulous about such things.
"Aunt Beatrix?" Sunny called out as he stepped into the entryway. His voice echoed, unanswered.
The coppery scent hit him first—a sharp, metallic tang that clawed at the back of his throat. The air felt heavier, oppressive, as if the house itself recoiled from what it now contained. Sunny's fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel as he moved further inside, his boots leaving faint imprints in the dampness of the floor.
He paused at the foot of the staircase, his gaze drifting toward the parlor. A shadow spilled across the carpet, still and silent. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out the patter of rain. Slowly, he stepped closer.
What he saw stole the air from his lungs.
Beatrix lay crumpled on the floor, her body a twisted marionette abandoned by its strings. Blood pooled beneath her, seeping into the intricate patterns of the carpet. Her once-pristine dress was torn, her lifeless eyes fixed on the ceiling in a grotesque mockery of repose.
Sunny staggered back, his hand clutching the doorframe for support.
"No…" The word escaped him as a whisper, too fragile to fill the silence.
The stillness pressed against his ears, deafening in its weight. He forced his gaze away, his legs moving of their own accord as he stumbled toward the study. The door was ajar, its dark wood smeared with streaks of red. Sunny pushed it open, his breath hitching.
Willhem sat slumped in his chair, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His hands, calloused and strong, now hung limp over the arms of the chair. Blood stained the front of his shirt, its dark hue masking the warmth of life that had once animated him. The room was in disarray—papers scattered, a toppled lamp casting flickering shadows over the scene.
Sunny froze in the doorway, his feet rooted to the floor.
"No… this isn't real."
The words tasted hollow, and yet he repeated them, as though saying it enough times might undo what lay before him. His vision blurred, his body trembling as he took a faltering step forward.
He reached for his father, his hand hovering inches away from Willhem's motionless shoulder. He stopped, his fingers curling into a fist, unable to bridge the final distance.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. They had survived the war. They had endured the aftermath. The warmth of his father's voice, the reassuring weight of his presence—it couldn't have been extinguished so suddenly, so cruelly.
Sunny's knees buckled, and he sank to the floor. His eyes darted to the crimson trail leading from the study's door, as though it might offer some explanation. But there was none—only chaos and silence.
The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. Sunny's mind raced, grasping at memories, at fragments of conversations, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of this.
He had left the house that morning. His father had been sitting here, reading. Beatrix had been in the kitchen, humming a tune as she prepared tea. It had been normal. Ordinary.
Now, the air was heavy with death, the stillness almost unbearable.
"This… this can't…" His voice faltered, breaking under the strain.
He crawled toward Willhem, his hands trembling as he reached for him once more. The warmth was gone. The man who had raised him, who had guided him through every storm, was nothing but a shell.
Sunny choked back a sob, his chest heaving with the effort. A cold numbness began to seep into him, dulling the edges of his grief. He forced himself to look away, to avert his gaze from the hollow eyes that no longer held the light of life.
For a moment, the room seemed to shift around him, the shadows deepening as the house exhaled a long, mournful sigh. Sunny's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to steady himself.
His father was dead. Beatrix was dead.
And Sunny Willhem was alone.