A Saint's Power.

INTRODUCTION.

Emery Pov;
"Emery, breakfast is ready, darling!" My mother's voice rang out from downstairs, warm yet carrying an underlying urgency that sent a familiar unease through me.

"Coming mom!" I called back, my voice hurried, though I made no immediate move to leave my room.

I knew how this worked. They never called me down just for the sake of it. If my presence was requested, it unusually meant one of two things- either they had something important to tell me, or guests were arriving, and they needed me to play the part of the well-mannered, obedient child.

Once upon a time, this routine 😩 me. The isolation, the waiting, the sense of being confined to my room until summoned like some afterthought. But over the years, I had learned to adapt. What once felt like a prison had slowly become a sanctuary.

And in this sanctuary, I had found something to fill the silence- writing.

It kept me occupied, gave me purpose and in a way, it allowed me to exist beyond these four walls. Through my words, I could be anywhere, anyone. So even as my mother's voice echoed through the house, beckoning me to join them. I lingered for just a moment longer, my fingers still resting on the pages of my notebook, reluctant to leave the world I had built for myself.

I walked down our long staircase and saw my Mother and Father sitting at the dining table with all the breakfast food you could possibly think of, yes, my mom likes to cook it's her way to release some stress. She's never told me that but I'm a observer and it's quite obvious at times. "Good morning Mum, Father." Okay I know what you're thinking but my father and I have never had a great relationship like most people. "Oh dear please sit, there's eggs, bacon, waffles and pancakes just tell me-" my mum got interrupted by my father, "After breakfast you need to go to your room immediately. We have guests coming at 4." Before I could say anything my father stood up and left the table without another word.

"I apologize about him but you know how he gets..." my mother says looking slightly guilty. I hate when she feels like everything father does is her fault. She deserves so much better. "It's all good mum, I think i'm just going to spend time on finishing my book." I hoped this made her feel better she loves the fact that I'm finally writing more but not about what I write so much.

I walked back to my room after I ate and started writing. When I looked at the time it was 16:23 that means the guests are here. I don't even know why my parents keep calling them that I know that they're only here to visit the house. I've lived here for 23 years and they're still trying to keep it from me, that the house is haunted. I think they just want to keep me safe but how can I ever be safe when all these stuff happens to me but nobody knows.