Forgrace

The door remained shut.

He stood before it, one hand hovering inches from the knob. Faint warmth from his fingers fogged the tarnished brass. He didn't know what layed beyond that wood—just that whatever it was had no care whether he stepped through it alive or not.

The footsteps had long faded. But the silence that remained felt heavier.

It had weight. And judgment.

He stepped back instead.

Not in fear.

In thought.

He wandered to the mirror again. The boy in the glass met his gaze, but not fully. His eyes kept flicking away, as if even his own reflection couldn't bear to look too long.

"What's your name?" he asked the mirror softly.

No answer.

His voice was rough. Like it hadn't been used in days. Or longer.

The boy had a name once. One people spat. One they whispered when doors were bolted and lights dimmed. The note didn't carry it, but it was somewhere, tangled in the roots of this dying place.

He knelt beside the bed, searching beneath it. Dust and crumpled wrappers. A small box with a broken lock. Inside: a bundle of worn papers, mostly blank. A few ink-streaked sketches—crude, frantic. One of a face, all teeth and shadow. Another of a noose.

Then, near the bottom, a folded certificate. Smudged and torn.

"District Welfare Identification – Orphaned Youth Registry."

Name: Keiran Vayne.

The moment he read it, something turned in his chest.

Like a door creaking open. Or a wound, remembering how it bled.

Keiran.

He didn't know if it truly belonged to him now. But the world would call him by it.

He slid the paper back into the box and stood. The room felt colder than before, though nothing had changed.

Not visibly.

He crossed to the door.

Pressed his ear against it.

Silence.

Then, faintly—murmuring. On the floor below. Two voices. One low and gruff. The other nasal, faster.

"Thought the brat was gone."

"He will be. Don't need to push."

"You know what they say. Filth breeds curses. Let it linger too long, and something wakes."

A sharp laugh.

"Let it wake. It'll fit right in here."

The voices drifted off. Boots on old floorboards. A door slammed somewhere far below.

Filth breeds curses.

The words scratched down his spine like a dull blade.

He opened the door slowly, every creak too loud in the stillness.

The hallway stretched both directions. Walls warped, paint peeling like old bark. Three doors. One to the left hung open—a bathroom with a shattered mirror and rust-stained tub. The other two were closed. No sounds came from within.

He crept toward the staircase.

Each step groaned beneath his weight, wood complaining in long-forgotten tongues.

At the bottom, the main room yawned wide—bare walls, a cracked hearth, a crooked table with a half-empty bottle of something that smelled like rot and no people.

But in the far corner sat a wooden box, nailed to the wall.

A mail-drop.

He glanced around. No one.

He approached it slowly.

Inside, beneath a torn flyer for "district cleanup efforts" and a faded bounty poster, lay a sealed envelope.

His name scrawled in red ink.

Keiran Vayne.

The handwriting was spidery. Uneven.

No return mark.

He turned it over.

A wax seal. Black. Pressed with a symbol he didn't recognize—two intersecting circles with a single line slashing through the middle.

He cracked it open.

Inside, a single page.

"To the occupant of Room 3C,

Your name has entered the registry for observation.

District sentinels will file report upon confirmation of survival status.

Remain indoors until summoned.

No further warnings will be issued."

He stared at it.

The paper felt too smooth. Too deliberate.

Observation.

By who?

For what?

He folded the letter and tucked it into the waistband of his pants.

Back upstairs, the window fogged again. The mist outside had thickened. The lantern across the alley flickered once… then died.

For a moment, the world fell completely still.

And then—a whisper.

Not from outside.

From within.

From the room. From the walls. From the mirror.

A sound that had no mouth. No breath.

A word that wasn't a word.

And then it was gone.

Keiran turned, heart thudding, eyes darting across every corner.

Nothing. No figure. No movement.

But the air felt heavier now.

More... aware.

He backed toward the bed. Sat.

The silence settled again.

The letter. The voices. The whispered threat.

And the name.

Keiran.

He would carry it. He would wear the hate it bore.

But he would not be broken by it.

Not like the last one.

"Let it wake," they'd said.

He smiled faintly...