Symbolic. Yes, it would be.
And through the constant avalanche of shit that followed me year after year, I managed to find something—someone—I could hold on to. In a twisted way, he helped me get there.
But mercy was never part of me.
Not then. Not now.
If I walk away, he’ll simply move on—find another lonely corner of the world, settle into another quiet cocoon, keep living in the kind of isolation Estella and I should’ve had. And since she still hasn’t taken me back, since time is the one thing I no longer have, I’m not giving him any more of it.
I pull the trigger. The bullet snaps through the air and punches straight between his brows. The sound is sharp—a clean pop that ricochets off the walls and sends a flock of crows screaming into the sky. A gust of wind pushes through the broken windows, carrying the frantic beating of wings as they scatter.
I stare at the wound as blood pours out in thick, steady streams, tracking down his face, dripping off his jaw. Slowly, I rise to my feet, but the emptiness inside me only gnaws harder.
I wait for the familiar surge of satisfaction to curl sharply in my chest, vindication to pound through my pulse, and the faint lift of relief.
But the air stays still. The body lies where it fell, dissolving into the countless others trailing behind me like shadowed ghosts.
Another moment without meaning.
A sudden croak makes me turn. One of the crows dives in through the shattered window, flapping wildly before it lands on his shoulder. Its glossy black eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, before it lowers its head and pecks at his neck, testing the shell that’s left.
This is what he becomes—meat for birds, a banquet for maggots.
Not poetic. Not tragic. Just matter returning to the dirt.
The moment I breathe in the outside air, my chest spasms, as if my ribs are shrinking around my lungs. And just like that, the distraction evaporates, and my thoughts, dark and familiar, begin to crawl back in.
I look around, noticing the little farm flooded with animals. I had been too deep in my thoughts to pay much attention—a small pony, some sheep, and a few goats. Clueless, they stare at me, and I pull out my phone, jotting down a reminder for myself, since I’ve become so lost that without it, I’ll forget.
I can’t leave the poor things to starve here. I’ll find someone to take care of them.
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I start down the path I climbed earlier, boots crunching over gravel, while the weight inside me spreads like ink in water, all of it swirling, consuming, closing in.
Another meaningless day without her slips behind me.
And there are so many more waiting.
Scottish Highlands
One year later
Night falls here not like a curtain, but like a tide: slow, swallowing, inevitable. By the time I reach the last bend of the narrow road, the world is already half-drowned in fog. It rolls down the heathered hills in thick, pale sheets, curling around rocks and fence posts like something alive.
The mansion only reveals itself when I’m nearly upon it. One moment, the world is nothing but grey mist, a blank canvas of fog, and the next, a silhouette rises from it—tall, angular, unmistakably ancient. The fog slides across the stone façade like pale fingers tracing secrets.
Even though I moved here a while ago, every return from an evening walk feels like stepping into a new world all over again. The mansion is gothic in its bones, built of dark granite weathered by centuries of storms. It rises in uneven tiers: gables, narrow turrets, a tower stretching skyward like a blackened spine. Every window is tall and pointed, framed by stonework so intricate it seems frost was carved into permanence.
At the roofline, gargoyles crouch at the corners—winged, grotesque sentinels with chipped claws and eroded snarls. Moisture drips from their stone bodies, eyes catching the faintest glimmer of moonlight, holding life for just a heartbeat. Rain has bruised the stone beneath them into streaks as if they’ve been weeping for centuries.
I walk across the narrow gravel path that leads to the door, each step crunching under my boots like breaking bones. On either side, the overgrown grounds stretch outward: twisted yews, thorn-choked hedges, a wrought-iron gate hanging crooked, one hinge missing. In the distance, an old glen vanishes into the fog, shadows thick enough to hide entire worlds.
It took time to find this place. I had to speak to a man, who connected me to another, who finally introduced me to the buyer. He needed money but was hesitant to sell—the mansion belonged to his grandparents, and it carried too much history, too much death. People had died here, and that alone, he thought, would scare off anyone willing to pay a proper price.
He clung to that mindset until he met me. I still remember the shock on his face when I handed him a fat stack of cash and said I didn’t care about the deaths, past or present. He looked at me as if I were one of the ghosts that supposedly haunted the house, but eventually, he gave me the keys, wished me luck, and vanished without a trace.
I needed a distraction—something to occupy my hands and mind. So I got busy, breathing life into this mansion, restoringwhat had long been neglected. I’ve always found solace in work, no matter how strange the task. Somehow, patching these walls, reviving these halls, lifted me, if only a little, out of the shadow of everything else I carry.
The mansion’s front door towers above me, immense and imposing. Its surface is carved with patterns that look Celtic at first glance, but the longer I study them, the stranger, more unnatural the shapes become, twisting like silent sigils. A bronze knocker, shaped into a snarling, almost alive creature, hangs at its center. When I lift it, the metal bites into my skin, so cold it burns, sending tingles crawling up my arm.
