Chapter 27
The morning air is biting, a damp chill that seeps through my coat and settles in my bones.
I stand before the weathered wooden doors of The Tin Heart, my breath blooming in small, ghostly clouds.
My fingers are numb as I fumble with the keys, the metal freezing against my skin, until finally, the lock clicks.
I step inside, and the silence hits me like a physical weight. It’s a heavy, dusty quiet, smelling of old lacquer, sawdust, and the faint, lingering scent of vanilla. As I walk further in, my eyes drift to the shelves. Rows and rows of vintage dolls stare back at me with glassy, unblinking eyes.
A familiar, suffocating tightness grips my chest. It’s a hollow ache, a void that never truly fills.
Looking at them, my mind slips back—back to when the world wasn't a fucking nightmare. I remember the warmth of the workshop, the smell of fresh paint, and the sound of my father’s voice, actually patient for once, teaching me and my sisters how to mold the porcelain, how to stitch the tiny dresses.
Then the memory shifts, turning jagged and bloody.
Seven years ago. I was twelve. I can still hear the screams, still see the way the light left their eyes as he butchered them.
After that, the man who taught us to create became a ghost of a human being, drowning himself in a sea of cheap whiskey and gin.
He stopped working. He stopped caring. He just rotted in his own filth.
I remember the sheer, blinding terror of those first few years.
I had to drop out of school because the bastard spent every penny of my fees on the bottle.
I was a child, barely a teenager, forced to take over the shop alone.
I spent my nights hunched over the workbench, fingers bleeding and raw, crafting toys just so we wouldn't starve to death. I was the one who kept the lights on. I was the one who tried to cook, burning the fucking pans and searing my own skin because I didn't know how, but I did it. If I’d waited for him to remember to put food in the kitchen, I’d be rotting in the ground next to Cordelia and Rosalind.
I walk slowly toward the shelf, my gaze locking onto a specific porcelain doll. She has black hair and ice-blue eyes, with neat bangs that frame her face. I reach out, my hand trembling, and lift her from the shelf.
This was the first one. The very first toy I made with my sisters when we were eleven. We wanted her to look like us—triplet identical sisters, a perfect set.
Holding her, the grief surges up in a tidal wave, crashing over me. The blue eyes seem to plead with me, reminding me of everything that was stolen. A hot, stinging tear spills over and splashes onto the doll's porcelain cheek. I clutch the doll to my chest, squeezing her tight, and close my eyes.
The dam finally breaks.
A sob rips from my throat, raw and guttural. I can't breathe; it feels like my lungs are filling with lead. I collapse, my legs giving out, and I hit the floor hard. I’m shaking, gasping for air, wailing into the silence of the shop.
Then, suddenly, strong arms wrap around me.
I don't even have to look up to know it's Rhys.
He pulls me flush against his chest, his grip possessive and grounding.
He sinks to the ground with me, leaning his back against the wooden shelf, cradling me in his lap as I break down.
He doesn't tell me to stop; he doesn't tell me I'm fine.
He just holds me, his heartbeat a steady, rhythmic thrum against my ear, his hand stroking my hair in a way that feels almost tender, despite the darkness that always clings to him.
As I cry, a cold, hard realization crystallizes in my mind. I don't just fear him. I don't just resent him. I fucking hate my father. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I want him to suffer every second of every day until his heart stops.
Rhys continues to hold me, his presence a shield against the ghosts of my memory. He whispers low, dark things into my ear—promises of retribution, promises that the man who did this will pay in blood. Slowly, the racking sobs subside into jagged breaths.
When I finally pull back, my face puffy and tear-stained, Rhys looks down at the doll in my hands. A small, ghost of a smile touches his lips. "She looks exactly like you, love," he murmurs.
I let out a tiny, wet giggle, looking from the doll to him. "Thank you," I whisper.
He reaches out, his thumb gently wiping the remaining tears from my cheeks before he leans in and kisses me—a deep, lingering kiss that tastes of obsession and protection.
Thump.
The sound comes from upstairs. Sharp. Deliberate.
Rhys is alert in a heartbeat. He snaps upright, pulling me up with him in one fluid motion. His expression shifts instantly from comforting to predatory. He reaches for the gun at his belt, the metallic clack-clack of him cocking the weapon echoing through the quiet shop.
He grips my hand tight, his fingers interlocking with mine, and leads me toward the stairs.
Every step feels like a climb toward a gallows.
We reach the living room, and for a split second, the veil thins.
I can almost see them—my sisters, lying on the floor in pools of deep, crimson blood, their eyes wide and vacant. I gasp, clutching Rhys's hand.
Then, a noise from the attic. A scratching, a soft moan.
Rhys leads the way down the narrow hallway, his gun leveled, his movements silent and lethal. When we push open the attic door, the air turns freezing.
There they are.
Two figures stand in the dim, dusty light. Cordelia and Rosalind. They are wearing the same dresses they died in, but the fabric is sodden, heavy with dark, dried blood that stains the entire lace. Their skin is a sickly, translucent gray, and their eyes are hollow pits of sorrow.
My heart skips a beat, hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I look up at Rhys, my eyes wide, desperate to know if I've finally lost my mind.
Rhys stares at them, his grip on the gun tightening, his brow furrowed in genuine shock. "What the fuck..." he breathes, his voice low and laced with disbelief. He sees them. He actually fucking sees them. But he doesn't lower his gun. He instead keeps it pointed at them.
"Ophelia..."
Their voices aren't sounds; they are echoes inside my skull, overlapping and ethereal. They drift closer, their movements floating and unnatural.
"Ophelia... the secret... the dark place..." they whisper in unison, their gaze shifting toward the furthest, darkest corner of the attic.
They glide toward a massive, old metal chest, its surface covered in decades of dust and sealed tight with heavy, rusted iron locks. They point their pale, blood-stained fingers at the metal, their expressions pleading.
"Find us... set us free..."
And then, as quickly as they appeared, they vanish, dissolving into the shadows like smoke in a breeze.
I stand there, trembling, staring at the empty space where my sisters just were. The silence of the attic is now deafening. I feel a cold sweat break across my skin.
Rhys doesn't lower the gun. He looks at the metal chest, then back at me, his eyes dark and calculating. "Well," he says, his voice returning to that dangerous, smooth hum. "I suppose the ghosts are giving us a fucking map.”
I stare at the empty space where my sisters just vanished, my heart still hammering like it's trying to escape my ribs. "Rhys... do you reckon there's something actually in that box, or is it just them? Just my sisters haunting us?"
He keeps hold of my hand, his grip firm and warm, and tugs me gently toward the massive metal chest. The thing's ancient, covered in decades of dust and rust, the locks so corroded they look like they've been there since the bloody Industrial Revolution.
He crouches down, running his free hand over the seals, testing the weight of the iron clasps.
"Could be both, love," he says, his voice low and thoughtful.
"Ghosts don't usually give directions unless there's something worth finding.
This thing's sealed tighter than a nun's cunt—whatever's inside, someone didn't want it found.
But your sisters... they looked desperate. Like they needed us to open it."
I swallow hard, my throat tight. "I'm proper thrown off though. Seeing them like that—it's too real. Too close to home. They looked exactly how they did before he... before they died. Same dresses, same everything. I can't fucking do this right now. I can't be here."
My voice cracks on the last word. I feel the panic rising again, that familiar choking sensation in my chest.
Rhys stands up immediately, turning to face me. His free hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking gently across my skin. "Alright, darling. We're leaving. Right now."
He doesn't argue or try to convince me to stay. He just pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then leads me back through the attic door. His gun stays drawn until we're downstairs, his body positioned slightly in front of mine like a shield.
"My place then," he murmurs as we reach the shop floor. "You'll be safe there. We'll figure out the rest later."
I nod, clutching the porcelain doll tighter to my chest with my free hand. The Tin Heart suddenly feels suffocating, like the walls are closing in. I need to get out. I need to be anywhere but here, surrounded by memories that won't stop bleeding.