He sinks into the couch across from me, the cushions sighing beneath his weight. Without hesitation, he grabs his glass and downs half of it in one fierce gulp. The amber liquid splashes past his lips, sliding down his chin and staining his white shirt, but he doesn’t even flinch.
I watch him without a word, my eyes widening just enough to betray my focus. I cannot tell whether the current moving through him is the old, persistent ache that has never left his heart, or something darker and heavier—something that has been quietly brewing there for years.
“You okay, professor?” I ask, tilting my head, trying to catch his expression.
He wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, nodding faintly. “I’ll manage,” he mutters. “What do you want to know?”
Everything. “Tell me about your brother, William.”
Bennett exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping as he leans back against the couch. “My brother was a good man. Stupid, but good.”
“He was a teacher, right? From what I’ve gathered, a good one. Did he ever think about leaving the village, pursuing his career somewhere else?”
A humorless chuckle shakes his chest. “No, not at first. I was the one with ambitions, not him. William was the type of man who lived by his routine. It didn’t matter how dull it was when it was safe. It was his way of keeping the world in order. Talking him into leaving that shithole was nearly impossible.”
“But eventually, he agreed?”
He nods, his gaze distant. “Yeah. He planned to finish the school term and then come with me. Not long before we talked about it, he was invited to The National Linguistics Olympiad. He and?—”
He cuts himself off, pressing a hand over his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut, the words locked behind his teeth.
“And Iris?” I probe.
“Yes,” he says, his tone a shade softer, as though he’s glad I’ve spoken a curse on his behalf. “He was happy about it. Happier than I’d seen him in years. He didn’t want to leave his daughter behind, so he decided to take her with them.”
“But before that could happen, she died,” I say quietly.
Bennett doesn’t answer. He just reaches for his glass and drains what’s left. The burn must be vicious. I can see it in the grimace that twists across his face as he slams the empty glass onto the coffee table.
Then he points at mine. “You’re not drinking,” he observes. “Trust me when I say you should. It’s only going to getworse.”
Without waiting for a response, he pushes himself to his feet. His hands smooth over his clothes out of habit, the motion automatic, almost desperate. “I think I still have something,” he murmurs as he moves toward the next room. “They’re not in perfect condition, but you’ll understand anyway.”
While he rummages through drawers and shelves, I lift my glass and take a small sip. The scotch bites hard at first, a burn that blooms across my tongue before trailing heat down my throat, steadying me.
“Not much,” Bennett says from behind me, “but it’s something.”
When I turn, he’s holding a mid-sized, worn photo album, trembling slightly as his fingers curl around it. He lowers himself back onto the couch, his face a blend of reverence and bitterness.
“It’s like a fucking curse,” he mumbles. “My brother loved taking pictures. Said they held memories. Our mother had Alzheimer’s, and the idiot thought taking photos would help her remember. Instead, it only made things worse. She’d look at them and panic. Said we weren’t her sons, that we were frauds pretending to be them, trying to use her, exploit her.”
The words spill out so fast that by the end, he stumbles over them, curses slipping through his teeth as his lip twitches, anger flaring uncontrollably.
This goddamn family, it seems, was destined to suffer.
He laughs softly, but the sound fractures halfway through, fading into silence thick enough to choke on. Bennett sets the leather-bound photo album on the table between us, its edges frayed, the cover marred with burn marks and scratches. He turns it toward us both, exposing its contents.
My eyes trace every imperfection: the scorched corners, the faded leather, even the faint scotch marks etched into some of the pages. He had tried very hard to erase these memories, but something stopped him.
He points to the first photo, where William stands in his classroom, wearing a suit and a smile that almost disappears behind his beard. “This was the day,” Bennett says, tapping his fingers against the picture. “The day she started attending hisclasses. I wish I had a time machine to go back and kill her before she had the chance to poison him.”
“Poison him?” I question.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes the album closer to me, his fingers brushing over the next pictures. I follow the movement with my eyes, absorbing each image.
The first pages seem innocuous: William in the classroom, alone, with other teachers, or with students. Their expressions are carefree, eyes bright with hope and promise. A clawing sensation coils in my gut, writhing with unease, sending shivers that travel up my spine.
Something is off.
