Chapter 7: The Weight of Silence

The wind cut through the barren trees, swirling the snowflakes into the air like restless spirits. Theo's footsteps left imprints in the thick layer of snow, each one a reminder of how far he had come, yet somehow, none of it felt real. His breath, sharp and cold in the winter air, echoed in the silence of the forest, but it was the weight on his chest that truly felt heavy.

He had returned to the mansion, but the world around him felt different. It wasn't just the biting cold or the thick snow that blanketed the earth. There was something unsettling in the air, something he couldn't name. His body moved forward on its own, carrying him toward the familiar structure that loomed ahead—like a memory that no longer fit with the present.

The mansion stood isolated in the distance, its stone walls weathered by years of neglect. Cracks ran along the edges, spider-webbed veins betraying the years of strain. It wasn't just the house that had aged—it was them, too. The weight of what had been, what had never been said, hung between them all like the shifting shadow of an ancient ghost.

Theo stepped inside, the warmth of the hearth greeting him like a distant friend, yet the air felt still, thick with unspoken things. The crackling fire in the hearth cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, but it could not chase away the chill that had settled in the bones of the mansion.

Gregory and Lily were already at the table, sitting side by side, as if the simple act of proximity could erase the distance between them. They hadn't spoken of it—what happened with Goldman, Varek—but there was a silence in their eyes that spoke volumes. It was the silence of knowing, of pretending that everything was fine.

Theo didn't speak. He set his coat aside and walked to the table, the sound of his footsteps lost in the low hum of the room.

Gregory looked up at him, his smile strained, eyes flicking to Lily for a moment before resting on Theo. "Made it back in one piece," he said lightly, but there was an edge to his voice, as though the world had shifted, and he was struggling to find his footing in it. "Almost thought you got lost out there."

Theo nodded without speaking. He set his eyes on the stew that sat before him, its warmth inviting, but the movement of his hands felt detached, automatic. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him, but he didn't want to meet their gaze. He didn't want to see the cracks in their faces, the strain behind their smiles. So, he focused on the bowl before him, trying to lose himself in the simple action of eating.

Lily's voice broke the silence next, soft but carrying an edge of tired humor. "Well, we thought about sending out a search party. But then we remembered how well that would go in the snowstorm." She smiled faintly, though it barely reached her eyes.

Theo's gaze flickered briefly to her, catching the weariness beneath her words. It was a smile, yes, but it was hollow. They were all pretending. Pretending like nothing had changed, like everything was fine. But the truth clung to the air between them—heavy and suffocating.

Gregory leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping on the armrest as if searching for something to fill the void. "Remember when we used to catch those smugglers near the border?" he asked, his tone lighter now, almost nostalgic. "They always thought they could bribe their way out, but we knew better. You'd have thought they'd learn."

Lily chuckled faintly, her laugh fading into something more distant. "Fool didn't realize the storm was coming for him," she said, though it wasn't a joke. It wasn't *just* about the smuggler. It was about the lies they all told themselves, the things they didn't say.

Theo's hand tightened around the edge of his bowl, his fingers white against the ceramic. He wasn't sure if he could keep pretending. If he could keep letting them believe that everything was okay. The truth, though it didn't feel like *his* truth, was waiting on the tip of his tongue. But saying it—saying it would shatter this fragile calm. This delicate lie they were all clinging to.

He was familiar with lies. Not just the lies others told—but the ones people told themselves, the ones that helped them sleep at night. *That* was something he knew deeply. In his previous life, he'd learned to read people. To see through the facades, the shields they put up, the masks they wore. The politicians. The criminals. The ordinary folk. He could always sense when a person was hiding something—whether it was an emotion, a motive, or a truth they couldn't face. He could hear the lies in their voice before they even spoke them.

But now... now, he realized, *he* was the liar.

The truth—his truth—was something that could shatter everything around him. He wasn't *Theo*. He never had been. He was Samuel, someone who had been pulled into this life, this body, and had been forced to pretend that he belonged. He *knew* the truth, and yet he couldn't bring himself to tell it. It would ruin them. It would ruin *him*.

But deeper still, there was another lie: Theo was pretending, too. He was lying to himself. He was deceiving everyone into thinking he was the boy they had always known, when in reality, he was someone else entirely. Someone who wasn't meant to be here. Someone who didn't belong in this skin, in this life.

Theo shifted in his seat, discomfort settling deeper into his bones. The lie felt suffocating now, pressing against his chest, threatening to spill out. He could tell them. He could tell Gregory and Lily the truth—that he was Samuel, that he had been reincarnated into Theo's body. He could explain everything, tell them about the world he had come from, about the things he knew—things that *Theo* could never have known. But as soon as he considered it, he saw it—the fragility of their minds. The cracks in their psyches, already frayed from everything they had endured. The truth would break them. It would be like throwing a stone into the still waters of their lives, sending ripples of madness through their minds. He could see it in their eyes—the fear of what they didn't know.

No, the truth couldn't be told. Not yet.

Outside, the wind howled again, rattling the windows, but it was the house that responded with a deep, hollow groan, as if it, too, could feel the weight of what was coming. Theo stood, moving toward the window, though he didn't quite know why. Maybe he was searching for something beyond the snowstorm, something beyond the warmth of this house. Maybe he was searching for the part of him that wasn't torn between two worlds.

The mansion stood, isolated against the howling wind, its cracks deepening as the storm outside grew fiercer. The walls that had once held so many memories—memories of strength, of pride—now seemed to bend under the weight of secrets long buried.

Theo looked down at the snow, blanketing the ground in an endless sea of white. There was something in the distance, beyond the snowdrifts, that tugged at him, but when he squinted into the storm, it was gone. It was just the wind, he thought, just the wind.

For a moment, he wished he could leave it all behind. Leave the mansion, leave the cracks, leave the silence. But something inside him—something he couldn't quite name—kept him tethered here.

"Well," Gregory's voice interrupted his thoughts, light but strained. "If you're done with the stew, we've got to figure out what to do next. Can't hide in this house forever."

Theo nodded, but the words felt distant. He wasn't sure what *next* was anymore. The world felt too big. Too cold.

Lily's gaze met his for a brief moment, and in her eyes, Theo saw the same weight he carried. She wasn't blind to what was happening. None of them were. But they didn't want to face it, not yet. So, they kept pretending. They kept filling the silence with laughter, with memories, with everything they could to avoid the truth.

And Theo stayed silent, just like them.

For now, ignorance was bliss.