First message
The glass was sweating in my hand, though the room was cold. I hadn’t turned on the heat. The whisky burned less now—third or fourth pour, I’d lost count. The quiet was almost kind tonight, soft around the edges like fog over the estate grounds. I liked it like this. No voices, no mirrors, no Maximilien breathing judgment from miles away. Just the low hum of oblivion creeping closer. I tipped the glass to my lips again, eyes half-closed, when a knock rattled the front door. Not loud. Just… certain. I froze, glass suspended midair. No one came here unannounced. Not anymore.
I waited. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe the drink. But then it came again—firm, deliberate. I set the glass down, slower than necessary, listening to the ice shift. My boots scraped against the old floorboards as I stood. My head swam, but I steadied myself with one hand on the table, the other already bracing for something—I didn’t know what. A memory? A confrontation? Jade? God, let it be Jade.