Chapter 10
I went to Blackthorne with Milo only after he asked.
Months later.
Not immediately.
He heard Clara mention “the bad house.”
Naturally, he became curious.
“Bad house?”
Clara looked at me.
I could have changed the subject.
Old family instinct.
Instead:
“A place Grandma wanted you to stay.”
“Why?”
“She thought it would make you tougher.”
Milo frowned.
“I tough.”
Clara laughed.
He shoved her lightly.
Sibling proof.
Eventually he asked to see it.
I waited a week.
Asked again.
He still wanted to.
So we went.
No Victor.
No Lucia.
Clara came because Milo insisted.
The children ran through the entrance like it was any other old house.
That helped.
Then Milo saw the small bedroom prepared for him.
His name had already been embroidered onto a blanket.
He stopped.
“Mine?”
“No.”
He looked confused.
“It has name.”
“I know.”
“Then mine.”
Fair logic.
I crouched.
“They made it for you.”
“Why?”
“Because they thought you would live here.”
His face changed.
“With you?”
“No.”
“Clara?”
“No.”
He stared at the room.
Then walked away.
Simple.
No dramatic breakdown.
Children sometimes reject horror by becoming interested in something else.
He found an old toy train.
Clara found the dining hall.
Then she called me.
Beneath one side table were initials.
L.M.
Luca Marzano.
My brother.
I touched them.
Memory.
Luca scratching the wood during punishment.
Like I later learned boys at Blackthorne often did.
Proof.
Names hidden beneath furniture because children were expected to disappear emotionally before adults called them ready.
Milo crawled under beside me.
“What that?”
“Your uncle Luca.”
“Where he?”
My throat tightened.
“He died before you were born.”
Milo touched the letters.
Then:
“He sad here?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
That was enough truth for four.
He crawled back out.
“Go home?”
“Yes.”
Immediately.
No lesson completed.
No symbolic reclaiming.
May you like
He wanted home.
So we went home.
