The second:Haven’t heard from you. Everything okay?
The third, from today:Draco, please just let me know you’re alive.
I should answer her. She deserves that much. But admitting that I’m currently squatting in some rich family’s cottage doesn’t exactly scream "responsible adult making good life choices." Besides, I am alive, and I’m figuring things out. Just not in any way she’d be likely to approve.
Instead, I text back:All good. Exploringthe city. Will call soon.
It’s not exactly a lie.
I toss the phone onto the kitchen counter and start my usual routine. Check that nothing’s been moved. Examine the fruit bowl, the dishtowels, and the pillows on the sofa. Everything looks untouched, but something feels… off.
The quilt in the bedroom has been straightened.
Close to how I left it.
But not exactly.
My street instincts kick in, that hypervigilant awareness I honed dodging cutthroats and crooked guards through Rome’s back alleys.
Someone was in here today. I’m sure of it. A faint floral scent clings to the room — something soft, like rosewater or lavender — not the harsh perfumes modern women wear, but gentle and old-fashioned. Definitely feminine.
Shit.
I do a more thorough sweep. Nothing dangerous. Nothing rearranged enough to make a statement.
Just enough to say: I know you were here. I saw the signs. I fixed them. And I’m keeping this quiet… for now.
Security would have been less subtle.
This feels like… curiosity.
The owner?
The thought makes my pulse hammer. I’ve been operating under the assumption that this place sits empty while its owners vacation in the Hamptons or Europe orwherever rich people go when they’re bored with Manhattan. But what if they’re not gone? What if someone actually lives here?
I stay standing, coin rolling faster across my knuckles as I do another slow scan of the room. Fresh fruit. Fresh bread. Running water. Power.
This place isn’t abandoned—it’s maintained. Cared for. Loved.
She was here—recent. The air hasn’t settled yet.
Which means she’ll be back.
And now there’s a brand-new lock on the door—installed quietly, without security, without cameras. Whoever came here didn’t want a confrontation. They wanted to slip in and out again… just like me.
If she comes back and finds me here… that’s a problem.
Leaving is the smart call. Find somewhere else. Start over. Survival demands it.
But as I look around the cottage—at the hand-carved mantle, the stained-glass windows, the books lined up on shelves like old friends—I realize I’m hesitating like an idiot. For the first time since waking from the ice, I’ve found a place that feels like home. Not just shelter. Home.
This is dangerous. Maybe the stupidest thing I’ve done since they resurrected me from my long sleep. But I can feel it—whoever was here today might come back. Soon. Maybe even tonight.
And whoever she is, she’s close.
I can feel her.
Someone young. Creative. Female. Her presence is everywhere once I start noticing. The food is chosen, not stocked. Fresh fruit is replaced often. Fancy coffee, expensive bread. One person’s preferences, not a family’s.
