Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the East WingBy her third day, Iris had mapped the terrifying rhythm of the mansion.
It was a fortress built on paranoia and vast, unfathomable wealth, yet it felt entirely dead. The dozens of high-priced maids and cooks moved like wraiths, whispering in corners, terrified of drawing the wrath of Victor Castellano or his iron-fisted estate manager.
Iris was on her hands and knees polishing the baseboards of the east wing gallery when she felt it—a sudden drop in the air pressure, the quiet prickle of hairs rising on the back of her neck.
She paused, lifting her head.
At the far end of the corridor, standing half-concealed behind a velvet drapery, was a small figure.
Leo.
He was smaller than four years old should be, swallowed by an oversized charcoal sweater. In his arms, he clutched a threadbare blue elephant with a missing ear. His eyes—huge, dark, and utterly devoid of childhood light—were fixed entirely on Iris.
She didn't gasp. She didn't lunge forward with false, high-pitched cheerfulness like the psychologists and governesses who had failed before her. Instead, she slowly lowered her polishing rag, sat back on her heels, and opened her hands palm-up on her knees.
I see you, her posture communicated. And I am not going to hurt you.
Leo didn't run away, but he didn't approach either. He simply tilted his head, his small fingers burying deeper into the graying fabric of the stuffed elephant. For two long minutes, the hallway was so quiet they could hear the distant ticking of a grandfather clock downstairs.
Then, a heavy door clicked open down the hall.
May you like
"Miss Day." Mrs. Croft’s voice sliced through the silence.
When Iris blinked, the shadow at the end of the hall was gone. The heavy velvet curtain swung gently, as if a ghost had just passed through.
