The Others

The Darkness Knows My Name

Oliver moved carefully down the cobblestone path, each step slow but deliberate. The night pressed in on him from all sides, a familiar cloak of darkness that he had long since made peace with. His fingers brushed against the wall, feeling the slight indentations in the stone, and the Braille markers his father had installed long ago to guide him home. They were a small luxury, one of the many things that had been done for him over the years—though not out of affection, but necessity.

The chill in the air nipped at his skin, and the village sounds faded as he drew closer to the estate. The gentle hum of voices, the distant chatter of taverns and homes—everything became a low, muffled drone as he walked along the path. The cool wind brushed his face, carrying with it the scent of the earth, and the faint hint of wood smoke. He could hear the echo of his own footsteps, the distinct clack of his shoes against the uneven stones. But beyond the physical world, it was the memory of the lake, of Fern's soft words, that filled his mind now.

He reached the gate.

"Master Oliver," a voice greeted him, deep and steady. It was Fredrick, his family's long-serving butler, who had been with Oliver since his birth.

Oliver didn't respond immediately, keeping his focus on the familiar creak of the iron gate as he pushed it open. He was tired of being treated like a fragile thing, tired of always needing someone to watch over him. Fredrick's presence was like an itch, a reminder that he couldn't escape his father's gaze even now.

"You didn't follow me," Oliver said curtly, stepping past Fredrick.

"I did as you requested," Fredrick answered, his voice calm. Oliver could hear the subtle rustle of his uniform as he stood at attention, just behind him. "But I kept watch. I'm always nearby."

"Don't coddle me," Oliver snapped. He waved off Fredrick's offered arm. "I'm not a child."

Fredrick's sigh was barely audible. "At least take your walking stick, Master Oliver," he said, and without waiting for a response, he gently placed it into Oliver's hand. Oliver hesitated, annoyed but knowing better than to argue. His fingers curled around the smooth wood, and he brushed past Fredrick without another word.

They entered the grand estate, the cool, echoing halls swallowing them whole. Fredrick's steps were silent behind him, a constant shadow, though Oliver could sense his presence. The mansion was too large—too grand for someone like him. He had never seen its halls, its vast rooms, or the sweeping staircases, but he could feel their emptiness in the way the sounds of his footsteps bounced back at him. The silence was deafening.

That night, Oliver lay in his bed, listening to the quiet. The sheets rustled as he shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. The darkness was suffocating, but not because he couldn't see—it was because it reminded him that this house, with all its grandeur, would never feel like home.

The next morning, Oliver awoke to the sound of footsteps outside his door. The faint murmur of maids preparing for the day, the distant clattering of dishes being set for breakfast. He sat up, feeling the emptiness around him, and waited.

The sharp sound of heels echoed down the hallway—his mother.

The door burst open, and she swept in, her perfume strong, her presence even stronger. "My darling boy," she cooed, rushing over to him. Her arms enveloped him, and Oliver stiffened under her touch. He hated this—this display of affection that felt more like a performance than genuine care.

"Mother," he muttered, trying to push her away gently, but she held on, stroking his hair as if he were still a child.

"Oh, you look so tired," she murmured. "Why didn't you call for me? You should've asked for help."

"I'm fine," Oliver said through gritted teeth, embarrassed by her fussing. He could feel the maids lingering by the door, their presence like a weight on his shoulders. He could hear them shifting awkwardly, unsure of where to look.

His mother finally released him and began to straighten his clothes, but her touch was clumsy. "Come, breakfast is ready. You must be starving."

At the breakfast table, Oliver sat at the far end, his mother close beside him while his father and brothers were seated at the other end, talking in low voices about politics and the state of affairs concerning "others."

Oliver tried to tune them out, focusing on the sounds around him—the clink of silverware, the scraping of plates. His mother, of course, sat too close, her voice an ever-present hum in his ear.

"Here, let me," she said, attempting to spoon-feed him. Oliver's face flushed with irritation.

"I can do it myself," he muttered, pushing her hand away.

But she was insistent, trying to balance the spoon as if he were helpless. Suddenly, she fumbled, and the spoon clattered to the table, spilling food onto Oliver's shirt.

"Mother," Oliver hissed, standing abruptly. He felt the hot stain spreading across his chest, and though he couldn't see it, he could imagine the scene—the silence, the embarrassment. His father and brothers had gone quiet.

Oliver could feel the weight of their stares, though his father's was the heaviest. His stomach twisted as if he could sense the disappointed gaze his father so often wore.

"Sit down, darling, it was just an accident," his mother urged, reaching for him.

But Oliver shook her off. "Fredrick!" he called, his voice steady but strained.

Fredrick appeared instantly, his steps swift and quiet. Oliver took hold of his arm, signaling that he was ready to leave.

As they walked toward the door, Oliver heard a low mutter, sharp and unmistakable. "How unsightly."

Though he couldn't see, he didn't need to. He knew it was his father. The sting of humiliation burned in his chest, but Oliver held his head high, gripping Fredrick's arm tighter.

As they left the dining hall, the murmur of his parents' frantic bickering began, but he paid them no mind. He was used to being ignored, used to being the outsider in his own family.

Back in his room, Oliver sat on the edge of his bed, his hands resting in his lap. The air was still, and the silence in the house seemed to stretch endlessly. Fredrick stood by the door, his presence as steady as always.

"One day," Oliver began quietly, "one day I'll be free of this place. Of them."

Fredrick didn't respond immediately. Then, with a soft sigh, he moved closer and dropped a book into Oliver's lap. "You've got time, then read. If you've nothing better to do."

Oliver ran his fingers over the book's cover, tracing the familiar Braille. He made his way to the window, seating himself where the warmth of the sun could reach him. As he read, he felt the world outside—the heat of the day, the faint breeze rustling the leaves.

As night began to fall, the air grew colder. Oliver closed the book, turning his face toward the window.

"Is it night?" he asked softly.

Fredrick, who had been standing by the door, nodded, though Oliver couldn't see him. "It is, Master Oliver."

Oliver stood, feeling the cool air against his skin. "I must go."

Fredrick stepped forward, worry evident in his voice. "You shouldn't. Not alone."

"I won't be alone," Oliver said, a small smile touching his lips. "Not entirely."

Fredrick sighed, but he knew better than to argue. "I'll accompany you... but only to the edge of the village."

Oliver nodded. "No further."

They walked through the village in silence, the path familiar under Oliver's feet. When they reached the forest's edge, Oliver stopped.

"Wait here," he said, turning toward Fredrick. "I'll be fine."

Fredrick hesitated but finally nodded. "Be careful."

Oliver entered the woods, feeling the world open up around him. The scent of pine, the coolness of the air, and the distant rustling of leaves filled his senses. Here, he wasn't confined by walls or expectations. Here, he was free.

And somewhere ahead, in the freshest air, he knew she would be waiting.