Page 41 of Widow's Walk
His smile turns into a rare toothy grin. “Yes,ours.” He chuckles, shaking his head when I narrow my eyes at him. “This isn’t a trick, Sinclair. Come.”
Still stunned, skeptical, and slightly uncomfortable, I follow him up the steps toward the front doors. Tall, maroon, and crowned with gilded hardware like something out of a forgotten cathedral.
We step into the barren space, yet the emptiness carries a strange, unexpected warmth. Something intangible that clings to the air and reverberates off the bleakness. A serenity settles over me like a blanket, unwelcome in its comfort. I don’t know if it’s the way he saidours, as inhisandmine, or if it’s the sheer absence of blood, betrayal, and memory. But something about this place feels sacred. Unspoiled.Safe. And that’s what disturbs me the most.
“I wanted to leave it up to you to finish it out. Floors, kitchen—all the final touches.” His voice seems far off as I cautiously explore, moving on autopilot.
The place is skeletal. Raw even. The floors are unfinished, the walls are stark, and what appears to be the kitchen lacks cabinets or appliances. Even the bathrooms are empty. Void of even a toilet. Yet, none of it feels hollow.
I decide to work from top to bottom. The stairs are grand, but not gaudy. It curves with elegance, understated andcommanding. The only thing, other than the exterior, that’s been completed. A blank canvas stretched in every direction.
Blackwell follows, but says nothing. His presence is quiet yet distant, granting me space as I meander from room to room, my eyes absorbing every detail while my mind overflows with ideas. Colors, textures, textiles, furnishings. I can see it all so vividly because this houseisme. Not the curated persona I parade for survival. Therealme. The one I bury under armor and performance. The truest version. Unguarded and aching to breathe.
We reach another stairwell, tight and tucked away. A contrast to the sweeping stairs that brought us here. “What’s this?” I ask, my voice guarded.
He dips his chin, silently telling me to look for myself. Mixed emotions swarm inside me, and my heart plummets with elegiac memories. It was my choice to move my bedroom up to the attic back home. For seclusion, isolation, and security. My sanctuary as well as my cage. I chose to live above everyone. Not to feel safe, but because it gave the illusion of control. Up there, I could see the threat coming. I could pretend I had autonomy. It was the only space I ever felt belonged to me.
At the top, the room opens wide, swallowing me in quiet awe. The ceiling is steep, its angles dramatic, painted black and broken by heavy mahogany beams that stretch into the two-story space above. Below, black-stained floorboards, aged with time, creaks softly beneath my steps.
Everything soon fades into the background, rendered meaningless by the one thing that now holds my attention. My piano.
Swallowing the rock lodged in my throat, I amble with careful steps as if it may be a mirage. Like if I move too quickly, it might vanish.
But it isn’t a figment of my imagination. It’s real. It’s really here. My pristine, sleek, stark white grand piano, I’ve had since before I was ten years old. It was my true sanctuary.
My fingers glide along the smooth keys, barely grazing the ivory surface, and I exhale shakily. Untouched by time. Not a scratch. Not a crack. Not even a speck of dust.
It’s strategically placed near the double glass doors that lead into a glass and steel grid half-dome. The structure alone makes my breath hitch and draws me in. I catch the cold of the handles in my palms and swing them open. I step out into the cool air, and a smile breaks across my face before I can help it.
A widow’s walk.
Iron railings curve around the edge of the platform, aged black and ornate, looking down on the yard and endless forest beyond. It feels like I’ve wandered into my own dream.
My back is to Blackwell when his voice splits through the fog my head is stuck in. “The house was built in the 1880s,” he says, voice low and steady. “I tried to preserve some of the soul of the house, but I could only salvage the bones. Floors, foundation.”
He sidles up next to me at the edge, and I turn my head slightly. He gives me this slow, annoyingly charming smile, and his annoyingly handsome face goes out of focus as the world tilts. I feel like I might faint. Or puke. Or just fucking drop dead.
How can he know me like this?Idon’t even know myself.
“Sinclair, are you alright?” His voice is muffled, like it’s traveling through water. But when he touches my arm, I’m jerked out of whatever the fuck that was.
My stomach twists, and my head pounds. Everything is scrambled, but I manage to pull myself together and clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I say with boredom, arching an eyebrow.
Okay, Sinclair. Get your shit together. It’s a fucking house. Ahouse. Material.
“Do you actually play, or is this another way to fuck with people?” His cheeky tone has my face heating.
I turn to give him a sardonic grin. “Now, why would I tell you outright?”
He chuckles and goddamn, Iswearhe’s blushing. That’s it. My knees betray me and wobble, and I struggle not to choke on my tongue. A chunk of dark hair falls over his forehead, and my fingers itch to touch it. He looks so unfairly good like this. Relaxed, thawed, and unarmed.
“Of course, not.” He leans his forearms on the railing to take in the view.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, soaking in the silence, the trees, the distance between who we are and who we pretend to be.
A few minutes, maybe more, pass until he finally murmurs, “There’s still more to see. We should move. Light’s fading.”
Walking at a leisurely pace, we make our way back down to the main floor. “Do we have a basement?” I ask with lucid enthusiasm.
