Provenance

Chapter 1 - Echoes of the Morning

The sun had barely crept above the horizon, casting a somber hue over the suburban landscape, as Amelia Harrison stood in her dimly lit kitchen. The first light of day seeped through the window above the sink, casting eerie shadows on the countertops. With her back to the window, she flipped a pancake on the sizzling griddle, her hands accustomed to the familiar motions. Her dark eyes, heavy with the weight of another sleepless night, darted to the analog clock hanging on the wall. The minute hand taunted her with its relentless march forward.

Amelia sighed, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. The sound of her husband's soft footsteps echoed from the hallway behind her, mingling with the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She knew he'd be heading to the table, laptop in hand and coffee brewing in the kitchen, a testament to his own carefully cultivated morning routine. The house seemed to breathe with the rhythm of their lives, every creak and groan a familiar song playing on repeat.

She left the pancake to cook and turned, walking through the small, narrow hallway that led to the staircase. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step an echoing reminder of her own presence. Pausing at the base of the stairs, Amelia looked up, hesitating for just a moment before beginning her ascent.

The air seemed to thicken as she reached the top, a familiar pressure building in her chest. With each step, the memories of her past clung to her like an oppressive fog, threatening to choke her. At the end of the hall stood a door, slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of the darkness within.

Amelia approached the door, her heart quickening as her fingers brushed the cold metal of the doorknob. She cracked the door open wider, revealing the room beyond. A musty scent escaped, a tangible reminder of the passage of time. Her voice, though quiet and strained, sliced through the silence like a knife.

"Bram," she called, her breath catching in her throat. "It's time to get up."

The room stirred to life, shadows shifting as a figure emerged from beneath the pile of blankets. Bram Harrison, a young teenager of fifteen, dragged himself out of bed with a groan, the sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes. He blinked, his vision adjusting to the muted light that filtered through the window. The world outside seemed to beckon him, whispering secrets that he couldn't quite hear.

Reluctantly, Bram pulled on his clothes, his body moving mechanically through the motions. He stumbled into the bathroom, the cold tiles sending shivers up his spine. As he used the toilet, brushed his teeth, he stared into the mirror, watching the reflection of a boy who seemed both familiar and foreign.

Back in his bedroom, Bram grabbed his backpack from its place beside the door, the weight of its contents a tangible reminder of the day ahead. As he descended the stairs, his exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, an armor against the world that sought to drag him down.

Entering the kitchen, Bram saw his father hunched over his laptop, fingers dancing across the keys in a frantic ballet. A steaming cup of black coffee sat beside him, its bitter aroma mingling with the scent of fresh pancakes. The television mounted on the wall flickered with images of chaos and unrest, the newscaster's voice barely audible over the clatter of dishes and the sizzling of the griddle.

Amelia, her eyes glazed with worry, moved through the kitchen like a ghost, her fingers gripping the handle of a scrub brush as she scoured a pan. Her gaze occasionally flicked toward the television screen, the images of protestors and anger reflected in her dark eyes. Bram could feel the tension radiating from her, a palpable force that seemed to permeate the room.

Bram sleepily threw his backpack onto a chair, the sound of it landing muffled by the cushion. He lowered himself into the chair beside it, feeling the groan of the old wooden frame beneath his weight. Grabbing the box of cereal from the counter, he poured himself a bowl, the dull clink of the spoon against the porcelain a familiar soundtrack to his mornings.