The House of Silence

The car that met them at the airstrip was as much a relic as the island itself—an old black vintage, long and gleaming, with chrome details that caught what little light filtered through the fog. It waited at the edge of the runway like it had been there for years, patient and watchful. The driver, a man in his sixties with a thin frame and gloved hands, gave Sloane a silent nod before opening the back door. No words were spoken. None felt necessary.

Sloane slid into the back seat, suitcase tucked against her legs. Theo followed, taking the opposite side with the same quiet efficiency. Between them stretched the kind of silence that had once meant comfort was now pressed too tightly against her ribs. She didn’t look at him, not directly, but she could feel the weight of his presence, the way he moved with purpose and stillness all at once, like a man who’d learned to weaponize calm.

As the car eased up the winding path, Elandra Isle revealed itself in slow fragments. Pines lined the road in dense clusters, branches slick with rain, trunks etched with moss and time. The mist hung low and heavy, softening the edges of the world until everything felt half-imagined. Occasionally, through gaps in the trees, she glimpsed the distant cliffs dropping into black water, the sea endlessly whispering secrets into the rocks below.

And then, through the fog, the mansion appeared.

It rose from the hillside like something carved out of myths. Three stories of dark stone and arched windows, with ivy crawling across the facade in wild, silver-veined vines. The structure was imposing but not crumbling. It had been preserved, maybe even restored, but not softened. There was no warmth in its design. Just a grandeur of silence.

The car pulled to a stop beneath a wide, columned archway. Before Sloane could reach for the handle, the driver opened the door, offering his hand. She stepped out and felt the air shift immediately, it was colder here, heavier with each breath. The stone beneath her boots was slick with rain.

“You kept it,” she said quietly, eyes on the mansion.

Theo stepped up beside her. Curtly nodded his head “I did” he hummed, as if that clarified everything.

They didn’t linger outside for too long. The iron doors opened without creak or ceremony, revealing a grand foyer lined with dark wood panels and a sweeping staircase. The chandeliers above flickered with low amber light. There was a faint scent in the air, lavender oil, wood smoke, and something older, like worn leather and books long forgotten.

Waiting in the foyer stood a woman in a high-collared blouse and charcoal skirt. Her hair was pinned back, her expression unreadable. She looked like she belonged to the house, as much a part of it as the tapestries lining the walls.

“Miss Maren,” she said with a slight bow. “I’m Isabel. I’ll show you to your room.”

Isobel turned without waiting for a response, and Sloane followed, casting one last glance back at Theo. He was already gone, vanished into some shadowed corridor, as if the walls had swallowed him whole.

The east wing was quieter still, the floors muffled beneath thick carpets, the walls bare of portraits. Isabel led her to the final door at the end of the hall, then stepped aside as it creaked open to reveal a room that was all velvet and stone and firelight. The ceiling arched high, cradling the space like a cathedral. The windows looked out over the cliffs, the sea obscured by mist but pulsing just beyond view.

A fire crackled in the hearth. On the desk near the window sat a leather-bound notebook.

Isabel gestured toward it with a nod. “You’ll find everything you need here. Dinner is at eight, if you wish it.”

Sloane murmured a thank you, but Isabel had already turned and disappeared down the hall.

Alone now, Sloane crossed the room and touched the notebook’s cover. It felt warm, worn at the corners, familiar in a way that made her chest tighten. She opened it to the first page.

Tell the truth.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Theo’s.

She let the notebook fall closed and stood there, unmoving, listening to the fire crack and the wind whisper just beyond the glass. The walls held secrets. She could feel them, like breath on the back of her neck.

This house wasn’t empty.

And it hadn’t forgotten her.