𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱɪxᴛʏ

The Turquoise Door.

🧶

    The cliff overlooked a dense patch of forest in the woods of Connecticut, the air crisp and damp with the scent of pine and earth. Down one side of the cliff, a highway cut through a narrow ravine, its asphalt ribbon glinting faintly in the fading light. The occasional roar of a passing car echoed faintly up the hill, a reminder of the bustling world beyond. On the other side, the slope descended steeply into what could only be described as someone’s backyard—though calling it a backyard felt like an understatement.

    The property sprawled out in front of them, more wilderness than manicured lawn. At its heart stood a white, colonial-style house, a two-storey relic with a certain charm that made it feel like it had always been there, nestled into the land. Its white paint was weathered but not peeling, giving it a timeless, sturdy appearance. Despite the highway just over the ridge, the house exuded an almost eerie sense of isolation, as if it existed in a bubble cut off from the rest of the world. Warm light glowed from the kitchen window, flickering softly like a heartbeat, a reminder that someone lived here, that life thrived in this remote corner.

    An apple tree stood at the edge of the yard, its branches heavy with blossoms. Pale pink petals fluttered to the ground with each passing breeze, forming a delicate carpet beneath the tree. Beneath its shade stood an old swing set, its frame rusty and slightly uneven. The swings swayed lazily in the gentle wind, their chains creaking softly.

    The narrow sidewalk leading up to the front porch was lined with an array of small stuffed beanbag animals. Lions, pigs, dragons, hydras, and even a tiny Minotaur sat in careful rows, their bright colors stark against the muted tones of the concrete. They looked almost new, as though they had recently been replaced. Yet their deliberate arrangement, each figure positioned just so, suggested a long-standing ritual. Rory couldn’t help but wonder how many hands had meticulously placed them, how many versions of these little creatures had come and gone. They seemed both whimsical and watchful, as though they were guardians of the house.

    The porch was alive with the soft music of wind chimes, their sounds blending harmoniously with the natural symphony of spring. Every beam and hook held some sort of ornament—glass shards, polished stones, and metal shapes that glittered in the light. Brass ribbons curled and twisted in the breeze, their tinkling reminiscent of running water. The chimes caught the sunlight, casting shifting rainbows onto the wooden planks of the porch. The effect was mesmerizing, otherworldly, as if stepping onto the porch might carry you into a dream.

    The front door, painted a bold turquoise, stood out against the house’s white exterior like a jewel against ivory. The name CASTELLAN was painted neatly across the wood in English, with an inscription below in Greek etched into the surface.

    Rory’s gaze lingered on the door for a moment, then flicked to Luke. His expression was unreadable, a carefully crafted mask that only someone who knew him well might recognize for what it was—fear disguised as stoicism. Rory was still upset with him, that much was true. She was still very much angry and frustrated but none of that mattered right now. She couldn’t leave him to do this alone, not when she understood how much it cost him to stand here. As much as she hated what he had done, she hated the idea of abandoning him more. Whatever he needed from her, she would give it. That was who they were—despite everything.

    The two of them stood in silence on the front porch. Luke’s hand hovered near his side, fingers twitching as if they wanted to reach for something but didn’t know what.

    It was early spring. The world was waking up, and the smell of blooming flowers and freshly turned earth carried on the cool breeze. The sun hung low on the horizon, its golden light filtering through the trees and casting long shadows over the yard.