The Landlord
Lucien jolted awake, flinging aside the patchwork blanket riddled with holes. His bare feet hit the cold floor with a jolt, and he sat hunched at the edge of his bed, heart drumming, pulsing fear through his veins.
Each breath clawed its way up his throat—ragged, gasping. The thin tunic clinging to his body was soaked in sweat, sticking to him like a second skin.
Drip.
Beads of sweat rolled from his brow and nape, spattering onto the floor.
His eyes darted around the room, wild with unforgotten dread that still lingered in his chest.
"Calm down," he whispered to himself—a command his body didn't care to obey.
His chest heaved. He clutched it as if it might split open under the weight of fear—irrational, yes, but real all the same. Even knowing it was just a dream, he scoured the room anyway, checking every corner with trembling fingers.
No red-haired doll.
No strings coiled from the ceiling like puppeteer veins.
The bedside table with the crooked painting was still there.
The ornate writing desk stood untouched.
The cupboard, intact.
And the chandelier above still swayed gently.
But then—
His eyes narrowed.
"That figure..." he muttered. "That blindfolded figure... holding the grimoire... it was in the dream again."
What does it imply? he thought, and again—the red...
Creeaak.
A sound to his right.
His head snapped toward the door. Before he even registered the face, his attention caught on the hair—red, glinting in the morning light.
Thump. Thump.
His heart kicked into motion.
How was your sleep, son?
The voice pulled him out of the daze.
Seraphine.
She stood there, beautiful, glowing in the dim hallway light. Relief washed over him like a warm tide.
Lucien was still gasping, eyes on the floor.
"Oh—I'm sorry," Seraphine said suddenly, rushing to his side. "I forgot to redraw the chalk to protect your dreams. Did you have a nightmare?"
She fussed over him gently, checking him like a mother bird checking for broken wings.
"Yeah, like that worked last time," Lucien muttered under his breath.
"You need to eat," she insisted, pulling him up with surprising strength and guiding him to the door.
Lucien glanced at the ornate writing desk once more before Seraphine tugged him into the hallway.
It stretched ahead, dimly lit. A single lantern swayed above, casting ember light across the hallway.
Lucien shuffled, feet dragging. His mother, still radiant in her silken nightgown, had a flicker in her eyes—a hollowness. She hadn't slept either.
They walked in silence until they reached the kitchen door.
"You kept muttering last night," Seraphine said. "The same word. Red hair."
She looked at him, hurt blooming at the edges of her expression.
"I hope you weren't dreaming about me."
Lucien's breath caught.
"It's nothing, Mom. Just a word."
Seraphine studied him, then offered a soft smile.
"Alright."
I hate lying, Lucien thought.
They reached the kitchen. Seraphine twisted the knob and opened the door. Fractured morning light spilled through the stained-glass window above the sink.
She crossed the room and opened one of the cabinets. Inside: a rust-flecked iron stove with brass knobs, soot stains around its mouth like old battle scars.
"Oh, yes," Lucien mumbled. "A stove."
Seraphine hummed a lilting tune as she gathered ingredients: pearl barley, dried thyme, chopped carrots, two onions, three cloves of garlic, a knuckle of salted lamb, and a bundle of parsnips. A chipped porcelain bowl held fresh cream.
The pots and ladles hanging above the counter were scrubbed clean but blackened from years of fire.
Seraphine stirred water into the iron pot and began the soup, steam rising as the broth bubbled and the lamb softened into shreds.
She glanced at him and smiled, then stepped out of the kitchen.
"Mom?" he called.
"Coming!" she sang from down the hall.
She returned moments later holding a slim, worn wallet. She opened it with a flourish and handed him a paper note.
Lucien studied it. A five-lira note, deep crimson, bearing a calligraphed L.
In the center of the note was a towering structure: a Gothic keep crowned with iron spires and a single immense clockface, flanked by rose-windowed galleries and marble courtyards. The Assembly Citadel, where Dukes, Counts, and Archons convened with the Sovereign.
"I suppose I don't need to tell you what that is," Seraphine said, amused.
"No, you don't," Lucien replied.
After breakfast, she fixed him with a serious gaze.
"Go buy some rye bread."
Lucien looked down at the note.
"But Mom, can't we just get charcoa—"
She raised a hand, warm yet firm.
"No argument. Rye bread."
Lucien gave a tired grin.
"Do I need to change first, or should I just go like this?"
She sniffed and recoiled.
"You reek of sweat."
With a sigh, she led him to the bathroom, rattling off a litany of warnings: don't waste water, don't crack the porcelain, don't disturb the boiler. The landlord, she warned, was not a forgiving man.
He entered the bathroom—small, narrow, and draped in chill.
The bathroom was tiled in cracked white porcelain, its corners veined with mildew and old secrets. A claw-foot tub rested beneath a latticed window, and above the sink, a rust-framed mirror hung slightly askew. A spider scurried across the cracked tile, vanishing into a crevice beneath the rust-framed mirror.
Lucien twisted the rusted tap beside the tub, and after a moment's delay, a hiss resounded above as the iron-wrought drenchpipe came to life—releasing a stream of lukewarm water. Lucien bathed quickly, scrubbing away the sweat and fog of nightmares.
Shortly after—
As he reached for the towel, a flash seized him.
A memory—not one summoned, but one that clawed its way back.
The landlord.
A tall, sunken man with sharp features and watery grey eyes, perpetually hidden behind a smudged monocle that never seemed to catch the light. His beard was a white waterfall of wiry hair, neatly combed but forever trembling at the edges like it held whispers of smoke. He often stood leaning against the doorframe with a pipe clenched between yellowed teeth, exhaling tendrils that curled like ghosts in the hall.
That day, he had screamed.
"That mark, Lucien! That damn mark on the wall! You think this is your sanctum to scribble occult gibberish?"
His voice cracked with phlegm and age, a harsh grating bark. The scent of tobacco, burnt cedar, and bitterness lingered long after he'd left.
Lucien had said nothing—just stared at the faded symbol he didn't remember drawing.
He blinked. The present returned.
He dried his face, left the bathroom, and stepped back into his room.
He walked to his bed and picked up the clothes from yesterday: a black high-collared jacket with silver trim lining the shoulders, sleeves creased just so. The matching trousers bore a smear of dried mud along the lower hem and faint blotches where damp had touched them overnight. His cravat—a pale blue silk, slightly rumpled but still catching the light—felt cool and soft as he draped it around his neck like a ribbon of fallen sky.
"I'll read it when I come back," he muttered.
He stepped outside. The sky was painted with a sepia haze, and the street below was wet with the aftermath of last night's rain.
His mother, still stirring the stew, called out after him without turning: "Don't talk to the man with the glass eye."
Lucien paused at the threshold, then gave a tired nod.
"Goodbye, Mum."
The door creaked shut behind him.