2025-10-21 22:46:32“Someone tried to burn it?” Lila’s voice was tight, sharp with disbelief, though her eyes looked more afraid than surprised.
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the scorched piano. “You wanna tell me why someone would torch a century-old instrument and a book that shouldn’t exist?”
She crossed her arms, barefoot again, hair tangled from sleep. “Because some things aren’t meant to be remembered.”
“Like my mother?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Her head snapped up. “What did you say?”
I rubbed my neck, trying to calm the edge in my tone. “That ledger had her initials. H.M. Helena Mercer. She used to play this piano, didn’t she?”
Lila hesitated — and that silence told me more than any denial could. She looked like she was searching for the right lie but couldn’t find one. “You shouldn’t go digging into things that don’t belong to you, Julian.”
“Maybe they always did,” I said quietly.
The room felt smaller, the air too heavy. A broken string from the piano hung loose, faintly trembling as if echoing something neither of us could say.
By morning, the estate was crawling with noise — firefighters assessing damage, the old man from maintenance muttering about faulty wiring. Mr. Ardmore stood by the window, expression unreadable. When he saw me, his mouth tightened.
“You were in the east wing?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “The fire started there.”
His gaze flicked to the charred corner. “Accidents happen. The staff will take care of it.”
“An accident doesn’t start itself,” I said.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then he turned, voice cold. “We have appearances to maintain, Mr. Mercer. I’d advise you to remember that.”
Lila stood in the doorway behind him, eyes unreadable.
I nodded, swallowing my anger. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to stain the Ardmore name.”
The words landed like a knife.
Later, when the staff cleared out, I found Lila outside in the garden, sitting by the fountain that hadn’t worked in years. She didn’t look like the polished heiress she was supposed to be — just a girl trying to hold something broken together.
“You knew my mother,” I said, sitting beside her.
She didn’t look up. “Everyone knew your mother. She was… complicated.”
“Meaning what?”
“She worked for my father before she disappeared. Played the piano, managed his correspondence, handled money. Then one day she just… left.”
I frowned. “You mean she was forced out.”
Lila’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s possible. But you need to understand, my father doesn’t like questions, and he doesn’t forgive easily.”
“Neither do I.”
Her eyes met mine then — green and burning. “You think you’re the first man to come here chasing ghosts? The Ardmore estate eats men like you alive.”
“Maybe I’m hungrier,” I said.
Something flickered between us — a current, dangerous and alive. For a moment, she almost smiled. Then she stood, brushing dirt from her palms. “Stay out of the east wing. That’s not a request.”
She walked away, and I couldn’t tell if it was a warning or an invitation.
That night, I dreamed of fire again. I saw my mother’s hands on the piano keys, her voice whispering my name through smoke. When I woke, the room smelled faintly of ash and roses — a strange mix that didn’t belong.
I followed it down the hallway, toward the east wing despite Lila’s words. The burned piano sat covered now, the ledger gone. But the scent led me farther — to a door I hadn’t noticed before, half-hidden behind a cabinet.
It creaked open to reveal a narrow staircase, descending into the dark.
My phone flashlight cut through the dust, illuminating framed photographs along the walls — the Ardmore family through the decades. But halfway down, I found one that stopped me cold.
It was my mother — standing beside Mr. Ardmore. Her hand rested on the piano, and she was smiling in a way I’d never seen before.
The caption below read: Helena Mercer, 1999 — Family Trust Gala.
My pulse quickened. She hadn’t just worked for them. She’d been one of them.
Behind me, a soft sound — like fabric shifting.
“Looking for something?”
Lila’s voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
I turned slowly, light catching her face. “You tell me.”
She took a step down, her expression unreadable. “If you really want to know what happened to your mother, you won’t find it in a photograph.”
“Then where?”
Her lips parted, but the answer died on her tongue. From above, we heard a creak — then the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate.
Lila’s eyes widened. “That’s my father.”
We froze. The steps stopped outside the door. The air hung still, so heavy I could hear my own heartbeat.
Then the door clicked shut.
And we were locked inside the dark.
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