Novel & Cerita The Remains Of The Day

The last picture in my head was his body on the ground, eyes screwed shut, blood pooling over. Please don't die. ~Three Days Later. Seventy Two Hours. Maybe a little more. There's not a single clock in the room. I know how many days have passed, that's all. It's afternoon though, I think, the sun doesn't shine in the evening right?

This moment felt like the ultimate test, forcing us to grapple with loneliness and despair in the quiet stillness of the night. Afterward, we sought out a nearby crematorium and proceeded to cremate Neil’s body. The process was slow and solemn, with the flames licking at the corpse, consuming all flesh and pain. The flickering firelight cast shadows on our faces, as if it were burning through our very souls.

A harsh, fluorescent light still burned from the night before, but a new quality seeped into the storage closet—a pale, greyish luminescence that edged under the door. Dawn. The war of attrition was over; the war of resolution had begun. The frantic heat of the night had cooled into a deep, solid warmth that lingered in their bones and in the space between their bodies. They lay entangled on the unforgiving floor for what felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat, the reality of the coming day a slow, cold tide washing over the shores of their exhaustion.

Kept myself from thinking too hard about how the grid had shifted around me, about how easily it seemed to learn. Learn from me. About what might happen if it catches me next time. By the time I reached the remains, dusk was sinking low to meet the horizon. Mist wrapped around collapsed pillars and overturned pews alike, drifting over cracked windows and iron-banded doors like a warning. The candles I’d lit earlier were still burning there. Half hexes carved into wax and pale charmfire still lingering at their edges. Draven waited. Didn’t ask what happened. Words weren’t necessary. Just his eyes.

He reached down, picking up the white chalk cylinder Mia had left on the hearth. "The Administrator called us an uncollectible remainder," he murmured, his thumb rubbing the chalk’s blunt tip until a small cloud of white dust drifted into the firelight. "But when you look at the cliffs, Sara, a remainder is the only thing that doesn't fit into their grid. It’s the extra number that ruins the equation."

"Then you immediately snuck out and took the stairs down. You waited for the news of Phoebe's death, then pretended to rush back in panic. Cody immediately interrupted me, his voice frantic. "This is ridiculous. It's insane. How could I possibly kill my own daughter?" I calmly retorted, "You knew there was a security camera in the elevator, so you took the stairs. The stairway is usually empty, so you stayed there, watching the security footage inside the house. "When I got the call from the building manager about Phoebe falling, I smelled smoke near the stairway. There are only two households living on our floor, and our neighbor next door doesn't smoke.

After leaving the hospital, I wrapped myself tightly in my coat and weakly made my way home. At 10:41 p.m., Ethan finally returned. "It's pitch black in here. How are you getting lazier with age? You didn't even bother turning on the lights," were the first words out of his mouth as he stepped through the door. I curled up on the sofa in silence and glanced at the dishes on the table that had been left untouched for three days. Those were the meals I had prepared before my fever, feeling sorry for Ethan working late at the office and not eating properly.

All I could see was Amelie smiling at me with her head tilted. As night fell, the car slowly left the city and headed toward the outskirts. It stopped at the foot of Mooncliff Ridge. Under the dim light, I caught sight of the words "Tranquil Haven Asylum" in bold letters. I knew exactly where I was—the renowned mental institution in Wimborne. The director led Dad inside. Meanwhile, the bodyguards flanked me on either side as I walked with my hands in my pockets. In the center of the lobby, a clock hung on the wall. I glanced at it.

The image of him in his death throes was burned in my mind, and I feared they would be the only ones I would ever retain. My mother stroked my hand, but I barely felt it. I ached to cry, but my eyes had other ideas, closing slowly to draw me back into sleep. The next few days passed in a humdrum fashion. The routine was always the same, except for the faces of nurses and doctors, which differed sometimes. I saw a couple of strange things while I was there, but I attributed it to the haze of recovery and medication. The first was after I had been moved from the intensive care unit to an ordinary ward. I was placed in a side room with a view over the car park, and I often sat watching the comi

I woke to silence and cold sheets beside me. Dominic was gone. The indent from his body had already cooled, which meant he'd been up for a while. I lay there for a moment, listening to the city hum outside the windows—so far below we might as well have been in another world. The clock on the nightstand read 7:47 AM. I had no idea what time he'd left. I pulled myself out of bed and padded barefoot across the room. The penthouse felt different in daylight—less like a trap, more like a museum. Everything in its place. Nothing out of place. Nothing real.