Ace wandered through the house with his hands in his pockets, moving slowly, like he was afraid the place might swallow him whole if he walked too fast. He felt like a ghost in a living museum, passing through exhibits of other people's normal lives.
The ground floor felt… heavy. It belonged to Rose. You could tell without anyone saying a word. The air was quieter here, softer, smelling of polished wood and faint antiseptic. Old furniture sat with the patience of mountains. Framed photographs lined the walls—generations of smiling faces, weddings, babies—looking like they hadn't been dusted or moved in years. This was the heart of the house, the still center everything else orbited. Ace didn't hate it, but he didn't like it either. It was a reminder that time moved forward, leaving people behind in quiet rooms, whether they were ready or not.
He climbed the stairs to the first floor. This floor had a different feel entirely. It belonged to Sunny. Ace knew that before Sophie ever told him. The place screamed control and order. The furniture was arranged with geometric precision. Books were lined up by height on shelves. There were locked glass cabinets and framed certificates on the walls announcing achievements in clean, bold text. Sunny Ames—the oldest son. A police officer. Almost fifty. Divorced. Ace exhaled through his nose. Sunny had always been… loud. Not in a fun, energetic way. The kind of loud that came from authority, from someone used to being listened to and obeyed. Ace didn't hate him, but he couldn't muster any respect for him either. A cop who couldn't keep his own life from spiraling felt ironic in the worst, saddest way possible.
Sunny had a son, too. Carl. Ace remembered Carl vaguely from years ago—quiet, awkward, always standing slightly behind everyone else like a shadow, as if he didn't want to be noticed. He was the same age as Ace. Sophie had mentioned he hadn't come back from school yet.
Maybe I'll hang out with him, Ace thought, the idea forming more out of desperation than anything. Anything was better than rotting alone in his curtained-off closet of a room.
The second floor belonged to Simon. Simon Ames—the second son. He ran a small carpentry business, something honest and simple. Married. No kids. This floor smelled faintly of sawdust and linseed oil, even here. Ace didn't mind Simon. Out of all his uncles, Simon felt the most… normal. Not loud. Not overbearing. Just a guy who worked with his hands and minded his own business. If Ace had to pick someone in this house to tolerate, it'd probably be him.
Then came the third floor. Samuel's floor. Ace already knew Samuel well enough from the car ride. The youngest son. The bar owner. Loud, teasing, always joking a little too much. Married, with a three-year-old daughter named Tina. Ace sighed just thinking about it. Samuel wasn't a bad guy—just exhausting. The kind of person who filled every silence whether you wanted him to or not. Ace lived in a world that demanded quiet; Samuel existed to break it. They were never going to fully click.
There was also the aunt—the older sister who lived abroad. Married to an army officer. Ace barely remembered her face. She felt more like a name on a holiday card than a real person.
Standing in the middle of the staircase, Ace finally understood why this place bothered him so much. This house was full. Too full. People, lives, routines, laundry, schedules, petty arguments over the thermostat—normalcy. A dense, complicated, messy kind of normal Ace had never really lived. No monsters. No secrets in the Eldren sense. No constant, low hum of hidden danger. Just people who probably argued about money, whose turn it was to take out the trash, and who forgot to lock the front gate.
Ace swallowed, the reality of it sitting like a lump in his throat.
Yeah, he thought, turning to head back down. This place really isn't for me.
Just then, the sound of the main entrance opening echoed softly through the quiet house.
Ace checked the time on his phone. Almost 4 PM. He straightened up and headed downstairs, already knowing who it was before he even reached the hallway.
Carl Ames had finally come home.
The front door closed with a soft, definitive thud. Ace stood near the hallway entrance, arms loosely crossed, watching as the boy stepped inside.
Carl looked… drained. His school bag hung off one shoulder like a dead weight. His uniform—a navy blazer and grey slacks—was slightly wrinkled, his tie loosened to the first button. His eyes were fixed on the floor, avoiding everything—the walls, the family photos, the light from the living room—as if making eye contact with the air itself was too much.
Ace cleared his throat.
"Wassup," he said, keeping his tone casual, unthreatening. "You know me, right?"
Carl froze. Not dramatically, but completely. His whole body went still for a second, showing he wasn't expecting to be spoken to, to be seen. He slowly, mechanically, lifted his head. His eyes, a light brown, met Ace's. It wasn't a quick glance. It was a long, searching look, like he was trying to match a face to an old, faded memory buried somewhere deep.
Ace let out a small, awkward laugh, breaking the tension. "…You don't remember me, Carl?"
Carl shifted his bag strap, his fingers tightening around the worn fabric. "N—no… I mean—" He hesitated, the words tangling over each other. "I… I remember you. You're Aunt Sophie's son, right?"
Ace snapped his fingers lightly, a grin spreading. "Bingo. Ace."
Carl nodded. Once. Then again, more firmly, as if he needed to convince himself the interaction was real and he'd responded correctly.
Ace remembered this about him. The long pauses. The palpable hesitation. The way Carl always looked like he was apologizing just for existing, for taking up space.
"Just getting back from school?" Ace asked, leaning a shoulder against the wall.
"Yeah…" Carl replied, the word barely a whisper.
"Where at now?"
"Northgate Academy."
Ace raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. "Oh. That's not bad. That's actually really good."
Carl just nodded again. Silence followed. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was the uncomfortable kind that makes your skin itch and your mind scramble for an exit.
Ace rocked back on his heels, smacking his lips softly as he searched for something—anything—to say to keep this sinking ship afloat.
"So uh… how is it there?" Ace tried, gesturing vaguely as if 'there' was a place they both knew.
Carl's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. His gaze flickered to the side, just for a fraction of a second. "It's… fine."
Ace caught it. That tiny hesitation. The micro-expression of something that was definitely not fine. It was the same look he'd seen in the mirror sometimes.
Yeah, Ace thought. That's not a 'fine'. That's a code.
But he didn't push. Not yet. Pushing was for monsters and secrets, not for quiet cousins who looked like a strong wind would knock them over.
"Oh. Cool." Ace nodded, accepting the lie. "I was thinking maybe we could hang out sometime. Since I'm, you know, stuck here for the weekend."
Carl's eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise breaking through his neutral mask. The idea itself seemed to startle him. "I—uh… maybe. I have… stuff. But maybe."
Another pause stretched between them, thin and brittle.
"I should go," Carl muttered suddenly, already turning toward the stairs. "Homework."
Ace tilted his head, giving him an out. "Oh. Yeah. Sure. No worries."
Carl nodded—again—and hurried past Ace toward the staircase, his footsteps quick and light, almost rushed, like staying a second longer might invite more conversation, more impossible social navigation.
Ace watched him disappear around the corner upstairs. The house settled back into its deep, familial quiet.
Ace exhaled slowly, a long, weary breath. He shoved his hands back into his pockets.
"Well," he muttered to the empty hallway, the words echoing just a little. "That was not awkward at all."
***
As time bled into evening, Ace found himself drawn to the only source of familiar warmth in the house. The blue-curtained room felt like a cell, and staring at his phone was giving him a headache. He followed the scent of cooking down to the kitchen.
The kitchen smelled warm and alive—onions and garlic sautéing, spices, vegetables softening in a rich broth. Sophie stood by the stove, focused, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hair tied back in a messy but practical ponytail. She looked tired, but it was a focused, productive tired. Like this was familiar territory, a problem she could actually solve with a knife and a pot.
Ace leaned against the countertop, crossing his arms. "What're you making?"
"Veggie soup," Sophie replied without looking up, stirring the pot with a slow, steady rhythm.
Ace blinked. "…What?"
Sophie finally glanced at him, a faint smile touching her lips. "You heard me."
"You know I hate veggies," Ace said, visibly offended. He gestured at the pot as if it had personally betrayed him. "Did you forget, or are you planning a slow, chlorophyll-based poisoning?"
"I didn't forget," she said calmly, turning to a smaller pot on the back burner and lifting its lid. Steam billowed out. "This is the chicken soup. For you."
Ace's offended look vanished, replaced by immediate, solemn approval. He nodded. "As you should."
Sophie scoffed, shaking her head, but the smile remained.
Ace wandered around the kitchen, not really helping, just being present. He opened a cabinet, peeked into the simmering pots like a curious inspector, and drummed his fingers on the fridge.
After a moment of this quiet orbiting, he spoke again, his voice softer. "…Want any help?"
Sophie paused in her stirring. She slowly turned to face him, her expression unreadable for a second. "So you can burn this kitchen down, too?"
Ace's eyes widened in theatrical horror. "Wh—did Darren tell you about that? That little shit!"
Sophie nodded, the smile turning into a full grin. "In great detail. He was very animated."
Ace inhaled deeply, tilting his head back as if praying for strength. "Okay, first of all, that little bastard exaggerates everything. It was a minor kitchen flare-up. A skirmish."
"I know Darren," Sophie said. "And I also know he's not lying."
Ace groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"Come on," he pleaded, stepping closer. "I can help. I'll be careful. I promise I won't destroy anything. Scout's honor." He held up three fingers in a vague salute.
Sophie studied him for a second longer than necessary, her mother's eye weighing his sincerity against his legendary culinary incompetence. Then she sighed, a sound of surrender mixed with affection. "Fine," she said, stepping aside slightly and pointing to a cutting board where two onions waited. "You can start by not crying over these. But if something catches fire, you're cleaning it. And explaining it to your grandmother."
Ace grinned, a real one. "Deal."
And for the first time since he'd arrived at the Ames house, things felt… simple. Normal in a way that didn't ache.
Ace stood beside Sophie, awkwardly holding a chef's knife like it was a foreign artifact. "Okay," Sophie said, pointing. "Just chop them. Slowly. No amputation attempts."
Ace squinted at the innocent onion. "It's staring at me. Judging me."
"It's an onion, Ace. It has no soul."
"Yeah, a smug, soulless one."
Sophie sighed but couldn't hide her amusement.
Ace pressed the knife down. The onion immediately squirted out from under the blade and skidded across the counter, coming to a stop near the sink.
"…I said slowly," Sophie repeated, patient.
"That was slow!" Ace defended, pointing the knife at the offending vegetable. "The onion just has commitment issues. And bad balance."
She shook her head, smiling, and reached over. Gently, she placed her hand over his on the knife handle, her touch warm and sure. "Like this. Steady pressure. Guide it. Don't fight it."
Ace let her guide his hand. The knife went down cleanly this time, slicing through the onion with a satisfying crunch.
"Oh," he said, surprised. "Hey. That's… actually easy."
"Most things are," Sophie replied softly, removing her hand but staying close, "if you don't rush them or try to force them."
Ace paused at that, the simple words landing with a weight he didn't want to examine. He focused on the onion, cutting with more care, each slice uneven but complete.
They worked in a companionable silence for a while—just the sound of rhythmic chopping, the gentle bubbling of soup, the clink of a ladle against a pot. It was… nice. Peaceful. A small island of calm.
Ace was the one who broke the silence, his voice quieter now. "You're tired."
Sophie didn't answer immediately. She stirred the chicken soup, watching the steam rise. "Yeah," she admitted finally. "A little."
"You don't have to do everything, you know," Ace said, not looking up from his now massacred onion. "You don't have to fix everyone in this house."
She glanced at him, surprise in her eyes. "You sound older than you should when you say things like that."
Ace shrugged, a defensive hunch of his shoulders. "Guess I didn't really get the luxury of being younger for very long."
Sophie turned back to the stove, her back to him. Her voice was soft when she spoke. "I'm sorry about that."
Ace's hands stilled. She didn't say it often. Almost never.
"It's not your fault," he muttered, the standard reply.
"I know," she said. "Doesn't mean I don't wish things were different. More… simple."
The soup bubbled gently between them, filling the silence with its comforting, mundane sound.
***
After dinner—the simple, good chicken soup that tasted like care—Ace lay on his thin mattress, phone glowing inches from his face. His thumb moved mindlessly, scrolling through short, flashy videos he wasn't really watching. His stomach was full. His body was tired from the long, strange day. For a suspended moment, wrapped in the muffled sounds of a sleeping household, he almost felt… normal. Unburdened.
Then the shouting began.
Not inside the house. Outside. Beyond the walls. Angry. Slurred. Unmistakably violent.
Ace sat up, the phone's light casting sharp shadows on his face. He listened. It was a man's voice, roaring with drunken fury.
The front door of the main house opened sharply. He heard the rapid, heavy footsteps of Samuel and Simon rushing out, their own voices tense but hushed.
Curiosity, that old hunter's instinct, tugged at him harder than common sense. Slipping on his shoes, Ace moved silently to the side door and stepped out into the cool night air.
The scene was under the jaundiced glow of the streetlight near the iron gate. Sunny Ames stood there, but it was a version of Sunny Ace had never seen. He was wrecked. His button-down shirt was torn, hanging open. His hair was a wild mess. His body swayed dangerously, as if the very pavement was tilting beneath him. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly unfocused, burning with a raw, unthinking rage.
Across from him stood a younger man Ace didn't recognize, tense as a coiled spring, fists clenched at his sides. He looked more angry than afraid.
"Motherfucker!" Sunny slurred, the words thick and mangled. "I will kill you! You think you can talk to me?!"
Before Samuel or Simon could fully reach them, Sunny lunged. It wasn't a fighter's lunge; it was a stumbling, weight-forward crash. He slammed into the younger man, throwing a wild, looping punch that glanced off the guy's shoulder. The impact was enough to stagger them both.
The younger man recovered first, anger overriding shock. He swung back—a tighter, meaner punch. It connected with a sickening thwack against Sunny's jaw.
Sunny's head snapped to the side. He stumbled, legs buckling for a second, then he laughed. It was an ugly, broken sound that had no joy in it. He charged again.
It wasn't a fight. It was a ugly, sad spectacle. Shoving. Grappling. Missed swings. Sunny tripped over the curb and nearly fell. He grabbed the guy's collar and slammed him hard against the iron gate, the metal ringing dully. The guy grunted, driving an elbow hard into Sunny's ribs. Someone shouted from a nearby house. Another voice yelled, "Hey! Stop it!"
"Sunny!" Simon yelled, finally getting a grip on his older brother's arm.
Sunny shrugged him off violently, a surge of drunk strength. "Get off me! This is him! This is the little—"
Samuel rushed in from the other side, wrapping both arms around Sunny's torso in a bear hug, pinning his arms. "Enough!" Samuel barked, his usual easy tone gone, replaced by sharp command. "You're drunk! Look at yourself!"
Sunny struggled, still trying to thrash, to swing at the blurry target in front of him, but his strength was ebbing, rendered sloppy and useless by the alcohol. His curses dissolved into ragged, wet breathing.
Another neighbor emerged and helped pull the younger man back, who was now shouting his own grievances, pointing a furious finger at Sunny.
"This isn't worth it, man!" a bystander shouted, not to anyone in particular.
Slowly, messily, it ended. The ugly energy dissipated, leaving only shame and damage behind. Simon and Samuel half-dragged, half-walked a now-limping, muttering Sunny back toward the house. Sunny's head lolled, his earlier rage collapsing into a heavy, broken exhaustion.
Ace stood frozen a few feet from the side door, a silent witness shrouded in the shadows between the house and the garden. He didn't move. He just watched the aftermath—the neighbors shaking their heads and dispersing, the quiet returning to the street, heavier now. He watched his uncles haul the shell of a man who was supposed to be an authority figure back into the house where his son was probably doing homework.