Kieran's Point of View
The walls down here weren't just old — they were ancient. Stone beneath dirt, carved with marks too precise to be weathered, too jagged to be anything but intentional. Every breath felt like it echoed through someone else's lungs. Like the air itself belonged to something older, something that spoke in silence before words ever had shape.
Then — sharp, jarring — Jean's phone rang. The sound shattered the quiet like glass.
She glanced at the screen. Froze.
A pause.
Not long, but weighted. Like she was waiting for the courage to answer, or the lie to form.
Then her voice, calm and rehearsed:
"Sorry. I forget."
A pause.
"Fine. I'll be there in thirty."
Another pause. Shorter. Tighter. Then:
"Okay. Thank you so much for your time."
She turned and walked upstairs without a word.
And I followed — because something had just shifted, and I wasn't about to be left in the dark again.
She left the cabin without a word. Just turned on her heel and stepped into the fading light like she couldn't get away fast enough.
So, I followed.
She stood beside the Jeep, arms crossed, waiting. When I caught up, she didn't waste time.
"Wanna drive?" she asked, tossing me the keys like it was no big deal.
"Fine," I said, catching them mid-air.
We climbed in — me behind the wheel, Jean riding shotgun. The Jeep smelled like old leather and dust and something unspoken.
I glanced at her. "Where to?"
"Your house," she said, casual. Too casual.
I blinked. "Why?"
"I've got somewhere to be," she said. "Figured I'd drop you at your place first. But I don't know where that is, so… you're driving."
"Fine."
I started the engine. The jeep rumbled to life, gravel crunching beneath the tires as we pulled away from the lake. I didn't say much. Neither did she. I just drove — straight toward home.
When we reached my house, I cut the engine. The jeep clicked softly as it cooled down.
I looked over at her, thumbed toward the house. "Want to step inside?"
She shook her head, almost smiling. "Not today. Some other day."
"Fine," I said, pushing the door open and stepping out. She did the same, walking around to the driver's side.
I held the keys out to her. She took them without a word, slid behind the wheel like she'd done it a hundred times before.
She glanced at me one last time. "Goodbye," she said.
"Yeah," I nodded. "Goodbye."
Then she drove off — just her, the road, and whatever secrets she wasn't ready to share yet.
I stood there for a moment, watching the dust trail fade behind her Jeep. The silence returned like a tide, crawling back into the corners of everything. My house loomed behind me — familiar, yet somehow distant, like it remembered a version of me I didn't anymore.
The key was still in my hand.
I turned it over between my fingers, unsure what I was unlocking anymore — the front door, or something deeper. Something older.
Inside, everything was where I'd left it. Shoes by the door. Couch still sunken where I always sat. Picture frames crooked like the memories inside had gotten tired of standing straight.
I dropped the key in the bowl, sat on the edge of the couch, and stared at the floor like it was going to give me answers.
But it didn't.
Instead — the silence shifted.
Not loud. Not sudden.
Just... different.
A creak. Floorboard. Behind me.
I turned fast.
Nothing.
No one.
Still, the air felt wrong. Like it had just been disturbed. Like someone had been here.
Or still was.
And on the table?
A note.
Not mine.
Not Jean's handwriting either.
Just four words, scrawled in sharp ink:
"You're not done yet."
My fingers were still curled around the note when the kitchen door creaked open.
"Good evening, sir," a familiar voice called out — gentle, motherly, laced with a tone that tried to smooth the edges off the world.
It was Mala, the maid. Been around since I was ten. She was one of those people who always felt like part of the house itself — like the floorboards knew her footsteps.
She stepped in, apron dusted with flour, a wooden spoon still in her hand like she'd come straight from wrestling a stubborn curry.
"You haven't eaten all day," she said with a look that could've guilted a ghost. "Whatever memory rabbit hole you're falling into, you can do it with a full stomach."
I blinked. Took a breath. Nodded.
"Yeah. Okay. Food first."
She smiled — just a little — and disappeared back into the kitchen.
I followed, slower this time, like gravity had doubled. The smell of spices curled around me, grounding. Real.
A plate hit the table. Warm. Familiar. Comfort in edible form.
But even with food in front of me… my eyes kept darting back to the note.
You're not done yet.
The room was quiet, but my head was anything but.
Something was moving. Unfolding. Pulling me in.
And it wasn't finished with me.
Not even close.
Just as I finished the last bite — rice gone cold while my brain buzzed warm — another voice cut through the quiet.
"Sir?"
I turned.
A second maid stood in the doorway. Rina. Newer. Younger. Still a little scared of the house, like she thought it might eat her if she took a wrong turn.
"Yes?"
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, a bit nervously, "Your lawyer's here. He says it's urgent. He's waiting in the study."
Of course he is.
Because apparently today was the day everything that used to be buried decided to claw its way up.
I stood, wiped my hands on a napkin, nodded once.
"Tell him I'm coming."
Rina vanished like she was grateful to be dismissed.
I glanced once more at the note on the table before heading to the study. My heartbeat felt loud. Not fast. Just… present. Like it wanted to remind me it was still there. That I was still alive. Still in this.
The lawyer wouldn't be here unless something was about to get real.
I pushed the study door open.
And there he was — Mr. Arman DeWitt.
Pinstripe suit. Silver cufflinks. A look like he knew secrets but charged by the hour to share them.
He didn't stand.
"Mr. Kieran," he said smoothly. "you're turning eighteen next month. That means you're about to inherit more than just a name."
I let that hang between us. More than just a name. The weight of KK Enterprises — millions in assets, investments, contracts stretching across continents. My mother's empire, her carefully built fortress, was about to become mine.
Mr. Grayson laid out the details with clinical precision. "The bank accounts under your name now hold millions, frozen until your birthday. But more importantly, the CEO position of KK Enterprises will be yours — unless you decide otherwise."
I thought about the promise, the responsibility. My mother's sacrifices, the legacy that felt like both a blessing and a chain.
Another maid appeared, her voice soft but urgent. "Sir, there's someone here who wants to meet you."
I frowned, curiosity pricking at me. I stepped outside, scanning the driveway—but there was no one in sight.
Then, out of nowhere, a face appeared—hidden behind a goofy ghost mask. It was Ella, my little sister.
She bounced forward like a live wire, the mask barely concealing the mischief in her eyes. "Boo!" she yelled, then immediately tripped over the edge of the step and stumbled, hands flailing to catch balance.
Classic Ella.
I reached out, steadying her before she hit the ground, a smirk tugging at my lips. "Smooth move, Casanova."
She yanked off the mask with a sly grin. "Hey, I scare better than I stumble. Watch your back, big bro."
Even when she's clumsy, Ella's got this fire—a fierce spark that says she's not someone to mess with. Cute savage, no doubt.
"Hey, big bro!" she said.. "Miss me or what?"
Then a Jeep rattled to a stop in the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust. Ella burst out first, practically bouncing with excitement, her hair a mess and a crooked smile plastered across her face. She tripped on the step, almost face-planting, but caught herself with a wild arm-flail that somehow looked graceful in its chaos.