The hallway smelled like cinnamon and firewood — soft, earthy, familiar.
Zelda moved through the corridor in an oversized sweater and leggings, hair tied in a loose knot. She had managed a few hours of sleep after last night's strange moment in the library — strange not because of the place, but because of him.
The way he had looked at her. The way her name had felt in his mouth. The way her chest had fluttered like she was sixteen again, confused and aching.
She shook the thoughts away as she descended the stairs slowly. Marie had insisted she eat something. Zelda didn't feel like it, but she didn't want to worry her mother.
As she entered the dining area, the smell of toasted bread and brewed coffee filled the space.
Berrett was already at the table, cross-legged in a velvet chair with a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage. He looked up and grinned.
"Well, well — it lives," he teased.
Zelda rolled her eyes. "Barely."
Berrett pushed a glass of juice toward her. "Drink. Sit. Pretend to be human."
She sat down across from him, tucking her legs beneath her like she used to as a child.
He leaned his arms on the table and looked at her. "How are you doing, really?"
She gave him a look.
Berrett raised both hands. "Alright, no therapy session. Just making sure you're not completely spiraling."
Zelda played with the edge of her napkin. "I'm managing."
He tilted his head. "You know he asked about you, right?"
Her heart stuttered. "Who?"
Berrett's brows rose like she'd asked a ridiculous question. "The devil himself. Upstairs."
Zelda's throat went dry. "He did?"
Berrett nodded. "Said he found you in the library last night. Wanted to know if you were okay."
She blinked. "What did you say?"
"I told him you weren't a glass doll — though if you broke, he'd probably be the reason."
Zelda looked away, cheeks warming.
Berrett leaned back with a smirk. "I'm just saying. Don't act surprised when his eyes linger too long. They always have."
She froze.
He always had?
Before she could ask more, Marie entered the dining room, robe tied neatly around her waist, hair pinned in a messy bun.
"Good, you're both here," she said. "Zelda, sweetheart, would you mind helping me with the attic later today?"
Zelda blinked. "The attic?"
Marie nodded. "I was going through your father's old boxes yesterday. Thought maybe we could donate a few things."
Zelda nodded slowly. "Okay."
---
The attic was dusty and dim. Marie handed her a scarf to tie around her nose.
"We'll be quick," she said, pulling open a heavy wooden chest. "Just sort out what matters."
They worked side by side for a while, sorting through old coats, faded photo albums, papers with crinkled edges. Zelda found a box filled with toy trains and metal cars — Ryan's old collection.
Her chest tightened.
After twenty minutes, Marie excused herself to take a call. Zelda sat back on her heels and looked around the space, feeling a sudden wave of calm — like the house, for once, had no expectations of her.
Then the attic door creaked.
She turned.
It was him.
He stood there in a fitted black sweater and jeans, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Dust and light caught in his hair like a halo. He was holding a box.
"Marie said to bring this up," he said.
Zelda nodded, watching as he stepped inside and placed the box near her pile.
He didn't leave.
He looked at the mess around them. "You're doing this alone?"
"She had a call," Zelda replied.
Silence.
He crouched next to the old trunk and brushed a hand across its lid. "I forgot how much he stored up here."
Zelda watched him quietly. He didn't often speak of his father. None of them did.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes were focused on an old photograph half-hidden beneath a stack of books.
He reached for it and pulled it free.
It was a photo of the five of them — Marie, their father, the four boys, and Zelda, maybe six years old, grinning too wide, clinging to Berrett's hand. He wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking away, arms crossed.
Zelda swallowed.
"I always felt like a guest in my own family," he said quietly. "Even before you came."
She didn't know what to say to that.
He looked at her. Really looked. "But you… you were always trying to belong."
Her lips parted slightly. "Was that obvious?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"But you weren't the only one."
Zelda's heart pounded in her ears. The attic felt too small now. Too quiet.
He stood and brushed off his hands. "I should go."
But he didn't move.
Zelda stood too. "You don't have to."
Their eyes locked.
Something passed between them — fragile, dangerous, honest. For the first time, she saw it: the tiredness in his eyes. The weariness of someone who had been fighting for too long, without letting anyone know.
And maybe… the way he looked at her wasn't cold at all.
He stepped back first.
"I'll leave the rest to you," he said.
And then he was gone.
Zelda sat down slowly, clutching the photo to her chest.
Her pulse wouldn't slow.
---
Later that evening, she returned to Ryan's room. He was still unconscious, but his face looked a little more peaceful. She sat beside him, book in hand — one she'd taken from the library.
But she didn't read.
She just watched the shadows shift on the wall.
Her mind wasn't with the story.
It was in the attic. In the stillness. In his voice.
And by the way, for just a moment, he hadn't felt like the devil at all.