The rain had not ceased since the moment Lira Monroe stepped off the train in the sleepy Scottish town of Kilbrae. With her suitcase in one hand and a letter crumpled in the other, she watched the driver disappear behind a curtain of mist. Blackthorn Manor was a half-hour walk, he had told her, and the road was too muddy for cars.
The landscape shifted as she moved—wet heather and crooked trees bent low in the wind, their branches clawing at the sky. The world felt quieter out here, less tethered to time. When the manor finally came into view, it wasn’t a house but a silhouette, carved against the gray heavens. It looked abandoned, yet the windows flickered like watchful eyes.
The manor emerged like a shadow from the hills—stone, ancient, draped in ivy. The moment she set foot on the grounds, she felt something shift. Like the air recognized her.
The man waiting at the door didn’t smile. Tall, dressed in black, with hair the color of midnight, he simply opened the door wider.
"You must be Miss Monroe. I am Elias. Groundskeeper."
His voice was gravel and honey.
He nodded. "Your uncle's instructions."
Her uncle. Dead for two weeks. A man she hadn't seen since childhood. Now she owned his home. She barely remembered him, except for the scent of his cigars and a sharpness in his gaze that always made her nervous.
The inside of the manor was colder than the storm. Candles flickered in sconces. The walls whispered with every gust. Paintings stared back at her, and staircases twisted out of sight like old secrets.
"I’ll show you to your room. The east wing is... closed."
He didn’t answer. He never looked back.
