His name was Nathaniel

16

Greg had long grown accustomed to the quiet rituals of the morning routine. The soft rustle of curtains being drawn, the gentle clinking of porcelain as breakfast was prepared, the echoing footsteps that seemed to fill the otherwise silent halls—these were the sounds that marked the start of another day in the grand manor. But on this morning, a heaviness hung in the air, something he couldn't quite place but felt deep in his bones.

The sun had barely begun its ascent, casting a pale, cold light through the windows as Greg made his way to Nathaniel's room. His polished shoes made no sound against the thick carpet, and as he reached the door, he paused for a moment, the nagging feeling in his chest growing stronger. He shook it off—Nathaniel had been through a lot recently, but he was strong, just like his mother had been. Surely, it was just the weariness of another day in this house that weighed on him.

He knocked softly on the door, the sound barely louder than a whisper. When there was no response, he gently pushed it open. The room was as he had left it the night before—neat, orderly, with everything in its place. The only thing out of place was Nathaniel himself, still lying in bed, not even stirring as Greg entered.

"Nathaniel," Greg called softly, moving closer to the bed. "It's time to wake up, sir."

Nathaniel didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe. Greg's heart skipped a beat as he quickly crossed the room, his hands suddenly clammy. "Nathaniel," he repeated, louder this time, his voice tinged with an edge of panic that he couldn't quite suppress.

He reached the bed and placed a hand on Nathaniel's shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. The boy's body felt strangely cool, his skin clammy to the touch. Greg's breath caught in his throat as he shook him harder, trying to wake him, trying to see any sign of life. But Nathaniel remained still, unresponsive.

Panic surged through Greg as he leaned over, pressing his fingers to Nathaniel's neck to feel for a pulse. It was there, faint but steady, and the relief that flooded through him was almost overwhelming. But Nathaniel's stillness, the unnatural coldness of his skin, told Greg that something was very, very wrong.

"Dear God," Greg whispered, his voice trembling. He pulled the blanket back, checking for any signs of injury or illness, but there was nothing. Nothing that explained why Nathaniel was lying there, so still, so lifeless.

Greg's hands shook as he reached for the bell pull, tugging it sharply to summon the other servants. Within moments, footsteps could be heard rushing down the hallway, and the door burst open as several of the household staff hurried in, their faces pale with fear.

"Fetch the doctor," Greg ordered, his voice firm despite the terror clawing at his chest. "And get his father. Now!"

One of the servants nodded quickly and bolted from the room, while the others stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Greg turned back to Nathaniel, his heart pounding as he tried once more to rouse him. "Nathaniel, please," he murmured, his voice breaking. "You have to wake up."

But Nathaniel remained unresponsive, his breaths shallow and labored. Greg could feel the cold sweat on his brow as he anxiously awaited the arrival of the doctor. Every second felt like an eternity, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

Within minutes, Edward arrived, his face a mask of stern composure that barely concealed the fear in his eyes. He took one look at Nathaniel's unmoving form and the color drained from his face. "What happened?" he demanded, his voice hard and cold as he turned to Greg.

"I don't know, sir," Greg replied, his voice trembling. "He won't wake up. I've already sent for the doctor."

Edward's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at his son. "Step aside," he ordered, and Greg reluctantly moved back, giving Edward room to approach the bed.

Edward placed a hand on Nathaniel's forehead, his expression unreadable. "Nathaniel," he said, his voice low and commanding. But when there was no response, his composure cracked, just for a moment, and the fear in his eyes became all too clear.

The doctor arrived soon after, rushing into the room with his bag of instruments and medicines. He quickly assessed Nathaniel's condition, his brow furrowing as he checked his pulse, his breathing, his reflexes. After a tense few minutes, he looked up at Edward, his expression grave.

"He needs surgery," the doctor said, his voice steady but urgent. "Immediately."

"Surgery?" Edward echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "What's wrong with him?"

"There's a blockage, something internal that we need to remove," the doctor explained, already pulling out a syringe to administer a sedative. "If we don't act now, he may not survive the day."

Edward's face went pale, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue, might demand more answers. But then his eyes met Nathaniel's still form, and the fight drained out of him. He nodded curtly, his voice tight as he gave his consent. "Do whatever you have to do."

Greg watched in stunned silence as the doctor and his assistants worked quickly to prepare Nathaniel for transport to the operating room. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts, but the most pressing one was the memory of Nathaniel's mother—how she had been taken so suddenly, so tragically, despite all the doctors' efforts.

As Nathaniel was wheeled out of the room, Edward stood frozen, his eyes locked on his son. Greg had never seen him look so lost, so helpless. He wanted to say something, anything, to offer some comfort, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he could only watch as Edward slowly turned to follow the doctors, his shoulders hunched under the weight of fear and regret.

Left alone in the now eerily silent room, Greg sank into the nearest chair, his hands trembling uncontrollably. He could hardly believe what had just happened, the image of Nathaniel's lifeless form burned into his mind. All he could do now was pray—for Nathaniel's recovery, for Edward's sanity, and for the strength to face whatever was to come.