CHAPTER 39: ECHOES OF SILENCE

The air in Haselburg was different than she remembered. The streets she had once run through as a child now felt narrower, the cobblestones uneven beneath her steps, the silence too heavy—as though the town itself recoiled from its own memories.

Mist clung stubbornly to the edges of roofs and chimneys, trailing low along the deserted Bazaar road like smoke from a fire long gone cold. Her fingers tightened in the folds of her skirt before loosening again as she passed Mr. Herondale’s antiques shop. Her gaze swept over shuttered windows and doorways, shops and homes that seemed to be watching her. No voices. No laughter. Only the faint creak of wood and the hollow rhythm of her own breathing. It was not the town she remembered—yet it was.

Beside her, Vincenzo moved with the same unhurried grace as always, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his vigilance. Every shift of the mist, every whisper of the wind drew his attention. His hand hovered close to hers—not quite touching, but near enough to remind her that he was there, steady as shadow.

The further they walked, the heavier the silence pressed around them. The Bazaar road gave way to narrower alleys, familiar yet altered, each turn unraveling another fragment of memory. She could almost hear the cries of merchants calling their wares, the chatter of children darting between carts—but the sounds never came, leaving only ghosts behind. As she passed the town’s library, her steps faltered. Through the dust-streaked glass, she could almost imagine young Liam inside, perched on a stool, stacking books with quiet precision, his fingers brushing the worn leather spines. The memory flickered—warm, fleeting—and was swallowed by the stillness.

Her breath quickened as they neared the bend where the street sloped toward the quarter she once called home. The mist felt denser here, clinging to the crooked fences and sagging rooftops, as though the town itself wanted to veil what lay ahead.

And then—her eyes caught it. The outline of her house.

Her steps slowed, each one heavier than the last. The house stood at the bend, unchanged, almost stubborn in its familiarity. The small wooden door at the boundary was drawn, the paint still intact, the main gate still upright on its hinges. It looked as though her sister might step out at any moment, basket in hand, ready for market day.

Her chest tightened. The sight was too perfect, too ordinary. The little garden along the path was overgrown, but only slightly as though—the flowers had simply missed their tending for a week or two. A wooden pail still leaned against the fence where she remembered leaving it once, sun-bleached and waiting.

It should have comforted her, this sameness, but it didn’t. The house wasn’t decayed, yet something in the stillness made her blood run cold. It was the silence. No voices, no footsteps, no creak of the door swinging open. The life had been cut away too sharply, leaving the scene whole but hollow.

Her hand rose, trembling, brushing against the small wooden door. "It’s the same," she whispered.

Anneliese drew in a sharp breath, the air tasting of damp wood and emptiness. Her throat ached as if it might collapse under the weight of memory. She pressed her palm against the door before pushing it open. For a heartbeat, she thought she felt warmth there—as though someone had touched it just moments ago—but it was only her own hand heating against the wood.

The latch clicked softly. The little gate swung inward with a creak, revealing the narrow stone path beyond. Her gaze traced it—the weeds pressing up between cracks, the wildflowers bending as if waiting for her to walk past. At the far end stood the main door of the house, wooden and whole, its frame still straight against the mist.

Her feet carried her forward, each step crunching faintly against the stones. The main door stood defiant in its stillness—every detail unchanged, every detail wrong, as if it had been closed only yesterday. The mist curled tighter as she walked, coiling around her ankles, her breath, her thoughts, until the door loomed before her.

Her hand lingered on the handle. For a moment, she almost expected resistance, but the door gave way easily beneath her touch.

The drawing room opened before her—quiet, unbroken. It wasn’t large, yet spacious enough to carry the echo of a family’s life. The small dining table stood neatly to one side, its chairs still tucked as though awaiting a meal. From where she stood, her eyes caught a glimpse of the kitchen—pots and shelves, ordinary things, a few unwashed utensils waiting in a silence that felt anything but ordinary.

Her gaze drifted upward to the staircase. Each step creaked faintly beneath her weight, the sound foreign in a house that should have been familiar. At the top of the stairs, she stepped into the narrow gallery. On the right, her hand hesitated on the door to her parents’ room. The wood felt warm beneath her touch when she pushed it open.

Inside, the air felt heavier—thick with shadows that clung to the walls. The bed was neatly made, though dust hung heavily on every surface. A single chair rested by the window, angled as though someone had once sat there, watching the world outside. Nothing stirred, yet the room carried the unmistakable weight of absence, of the lives once lived here.

Her gaze lingered a moment longer in her parents’ room before she stepped back into the narrow gallery. Straight ahead waited another door—the one that opened into the room she had once shared with Adlina.

A hush pressed against her as she reached for it, neither welcoming nor forbidding, only watchful. The moment the door swung inward, the difference struck her. Unlike the rest of the house, left untouched in its silence, this room felt unsettled, restless. Drawers yanked open, their contents scattered across the floor. Blankets hung half-torn from the bedframe, sheets twisted as though clawed at in haste. A chair lay overturned, its leg cracked against the boards. Every corner whispered of a desperate search, of hands that had not cared what they broke in their need to find something—someone.

Her eyes finally lifted to Vincenzo, a step behind her. He stood perfectly still, yet the quiet intensity in his posture spoke volumes. His dark eyes swept over the room, then flicked to her, a tether of reassurance in their depths. She could feel the steadiness of him, the deliberate calm in contrast to the restless energy the room exuded.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if she should speak, if words could somehow lessen the weight pressing down on her chest. But Vincenzo remained silent, letting her absorb the scene alone, his presence a silent promise that she would not face it by herself.

The way he held himself—neither commanding nor intrusive—made her heart soften. She realized she could lean on him without needing to ask, that he understood the gravity of what she was seeing without needing to speak it aloud. Even here, even in a room that seemed desperate and restless, his calm and steady presence offered a fragile kind of safety.