It was only the second time Shannon had walked down that staircase.
The first had been yesterday—when they moved in. The house still smelled like fresh paint and new carpets then, yet the silence had already begun to suffocate her.
Her hair was a tangled mess, piled carelessly atop her head like a bird's nest. The whites of her eyes were tinged red—evidence of another restless night.
The creak of the steps under her bare feet announced her descent. Below, Claire was busy setting breakfast on the small table nestled into the sitting room corner. Two plates. Two mugs. An attempt at normalcy.
"Good morning," Shannon muttered as her foot landed on the ground floor.
"Morning!" Claire's cheer rang out too brightly—too forced. It grated against Shannon's raw nerves, and she found herself wondering what exactly her mother had to be so enthusiastic about.
"Did you sleep well, my love?" Claire asked with her back still turned, arranging toast with robotic care.
Shannon rubbed her face, pushing back strands of loose hair. Her shoulders ached, her chest felt tight.
When Claire finally turned around to pull out the chairs, Shannon caught the flicker in her eyes—the disappointment she didn't bother hiding. It hit her like ice water.
"I… guess not," Shannon replied quietly, answering the question she'd tried to dodge.
She crossed the room and took a seat. She didn't need to hear the words—she already knew what Claire was thinking. Her mother had latched onto the therapist's words with desperate hope, clinging to the promise of change. But this morning, like every other morning, Shannon had woken up as hollow as ever. No better. No worse.
She hated herself for it.
"It was… bearable," she added, trying to lessen the blow, her voice as limp as her posture.
A long breath filled the space. Claire sat opposite her, her face unreadable.
"What did you see?" she asked, carefully.
"The usual," Shannon said with a shrug. "Nothing new."
A lie. And a poor one.
"And you still call that bearable?"
Shannon didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the tray—hot coffee steaming, toast buttered to perfection. She blinked slowly, then looked up at her mother.
"Yes," she whispered. "It's been fifteen years. I should be used to it by now… shouldn't I?"
Claire held her daughter's gaze. It was a stare that reached past the words and into the cracks beneath them.
Shannon looked away first. Reached for the coffee.
She needed the burn in her throat to remind her she was still alive.
"You know…" Claire's voice was quieter now, sadder. "Sometimes I wonder how you manage to live like this."
Shannon paused mid-sip. The cup hovered just beneath her chin. Her inner cheek caught between her teeth. She wanted to shrug. To laugh. To snap.
But she said nothing.
Her silence, as always, filled the room with an ache.
"It's getting cold. Eat," Claire urged, pasting on a brittle smile to hold the moment together.
Obediently, Shannon bit into her toast. The crunch echoed louder than it should have. She chewed mechanically, washing it down with another scalding gulp of coffee.
"Remember, I'm leaving for Armstery Town today."
Cough. Cough.
The words triggered something sharp in Shannon's throat. She doubled over in a fit of coughing, palm thumping against her chest.
"Here—water," Claire slid a glass toward her.
"When?" Shannon rasped, still catching her breath as she grabbed the glass and drank deeply.
Claire waited. Patient, but firm.
"After I make sure you're settled in at school," she said.
Shannon froze.
"You weren't joking…" she muttered.
"No, I wasn't."
The toast sat forgotten on her plate now, her appetite completely gone. She leaned back in her chair, eyes distant.
"So you want to get this over with early?" she asked, voice flat.
Claire nodded.
"What if I don't want to go, Mom?"
Claire leaned forward, arms folded over the table. Her voice turned steel.
"Young lady, we are not doing this again. Eat your breakfast. Take a shower. Get dressed. And walk out that door." Her red-polished nail pointed sharply at the corner exit.
"And do it now."
The act reminded Shannon too much of Mrs Meyer—except her mother had a kinder face.
Claire had always known how to switch—gentle one moment, commanding the next. It had been a necessary skill. Raising Shannon required both.
But she'd never regretted the choice she'd made. Not once.
"I've lost my appetite," Shannon muttered. She stood abruptly, scooping up her plate and heading toward the kitchen.
"Shannon?"
"Mother?" she replied without turning, the edge in her voice barely contained.
"That habit of yours—coming down without freshening up—ends today. They won't tolerate it at the dorms."
Shannon didn't respond. She disappeared into the kitchen with her half-eaten meal.
---
The drive to Verdes was long. And silent.
The tension between mother and daughter was thick enough to choke on. Shannon could almost taste it.
Her eyes lingered on the blank screen of her phone—not scrolling, not typing—just staring. The dark glass reflected her face faintly, fractured by shadows. But it was her eyes that unsettled her most: wide, quiet things, as if harboring secrets even she couldn't name.
A shiver traced her spine just as the car began to slow. She felt it in her bones before the wheels came to a full stop.
Deliberately, she lifted her head. Her dark hair fell forward like a veil, framing her pale, round face. And then she saw it.
A towering black gate stood before her, ancient iron twisted into elegant menace. Above it, a single word was etched in cold, unforgiving steel:
Verdes. Est—1708
Her breath caught. The name tasted foreign on her tongue, yet familiar in the marrow of her bones. Her gaze slipped through the iron bars, drawn to the massive silhouette rising behind them—a fortress of stone and shadow. Turrets speared the sky, dormers blinked like sightless eyes, and ivy clung like decay to the weathered stone.
The air itself was wrong. Too still. Too cold. As if the place exhaled secrets.
Her chest tightened. Her hands trembled in her lap.
Was this the place she would finally come undone?