Rumah Oren Novels & Stories

“Hey, can you make dinner? Salmon, lemon sauce and maybe some greens?” “Thanks,” I said, hanging up, my feet drifting toward my bedroom. But I stopped at Orrin’s door, its closed surface pulling me like a tide. Three weeks gone, no word, just those roses stirring me up. I shouldn’t snoop—his space was private—but curiosity burned, and I turned the knob, the door opening silently. His room was stark, orderly, every detail organised. A king bed with crisp white sheets, a sleek desk bare except for a pen holder. An armchair by a window framing London’s lights.

- Soren arrived as promised, and we drove to his personal lakeside villa. It was my first time stepping into his sanctuary. The interior was quiet, elegant, and undeniably lavish, while outside, the landscape was a stark expanse of white and gray coldness. But the villa's yard felt like spring had come early. A little stream wound through the property, its waters teeming with fish. Meadows of flowers stretched across the lush greenery. "I had this house designed to resemble the Kenway residence a little," Soren said, watching me closely. "But I don't know if you'll like it. If you don't, we can always buy another house. Or a new property."

To call the manor enormous would be an understatement, with over 10 bedrooms, 4 dens, and two kitchens and a large sunroom that overlooks the lake, it is by far the biggest house in the area. I finally arrive at the head office on the property. The building has a small apartment on top where my mother lives since my father died. We offer a large assortment of fruits, including apples, pears, plums, cherries, oranges, and lemons—given the cold and harsh winters here in Ontario, we shouldn’t be able to grow oranges or lemons. In our fields, we grow the sweetest strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and blueberry. Some of our trees are record breaking in size, bigger than houses.

They both get out and approach the place in silence, with both of their eyes being drawn towards the room with the yellow police caution tape marking off the door. “Want to come upstairs and talk?” Owen asks her and she nods wordlessly. He leads her past the office and across the foyer, up the stairs to his private quarters. He has a few rooms and a living room upstairs. It is the original design of the old house that he grew up in. He changed it to erase the memories, but kept it as much like it had been as he could stand, in the hopes that he could finally make the place feel like a home. Maybe then it wouldn't haunt him so much.