𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱɪxᴛʏ-ᴏɴᴇ

A Mother's Blessing.

🧶

    The inside of the house felt like stepping into another world—one suspended somewhere between a dream and a nightmare. The walls were crowded with mirrors, their uneven surfaces reflecting the dim, flickering light in fractured patterns, creating an almost kaleidoscopic effect. Rory caught glimpses of herself in every direction, distorted and fragmented, as if the house was trying to strip her down to pieces she couldn’t quite recognize. The scent of wax and smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint tang of something metallic—copper, maybe—like the ghost of blood long since spilled.

    Candles were perched on nearly every available surface, their flames dancing unevenly, casting shifting shadows that seemed alive. A bronze clock stood against one wall, its face ornate and intricate. Rory’s eyes followed the tiny figure of Hermes who darted tirelessly around its rim, his wings a constant, taunting reminder of time slipping away, of things lost and irretrievable. She wondered if the clock still worked or if it was just another relic, frozen in time like so much else in this house.

    Rory lingered by the doorway, her fingers brushing lightly against the frame as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Luke stood near her, silent but clearly tense, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. She glanced at him briefly, catching the tight set of his jaw and the way his gaze darted around the room, never settling for too long. He hadn’t expected this visit to be easy—she knew that much—but the weight in his expression suggested it was affecting him even more than he’d anticipated. She could feel the pressure radiating off him like heat from a fire, and it was almost enough to make her reach out, to say something. Almost.

    May shuffled into the kitchen, her movements unsteady but strangely purposeful, her muttering carrying back to them in disjointed snippets. "I always knew… told them all he'd come back… didn't believe me, but I knew… Oh, yes, I did…" Her voice trailed off as she rounded the corner, the clatter of dishes punctuating her rambling. Rory listened closely, trying to piece together the fragments of her words, but it was like trying to read smoke.

    Luke didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at the floor like he wanted it to swallow him whole. Rory’s gaze swept the room again, taking in the strange, uneasy balance between chaos and intimacy. Her eyes landed on the mantle above the fireplace, where a small collection of trinkets and photos sat. One picture caught her attention—a younger Luke, maybe eight or nine years old, grinning at the camera with two front teeth conspicuously missing.

    She moved closer, almost without thinking, drawn to the image. In it, Luke looked so different, so carefree. It wasn’t just the absence of his scar—she had known him before he’d gotten that, of course, had been there when it happened. Her stomach tightened at the thought, the memory rising unbidden. No, it wasn’t the lack of the scar that struck her. It was the absence of the haunting, hollow look he always wore now. The boy in the photo hadn’t yet known tragedy. He hadn’t yet carried the weight of Thalia’s sacrifice, the guilt of her fall, or the bitterness that had hardened him into someone she barely recognized anymore.

    Rory’s chest ached, a deep, uncomfortable pull that made her want to turn away, but she couldn’t. The boy in the photo felt like a stranger—a ghost of someone Luke could have been if things had gone differently. If she hadn’t been there. If she hadn’t—

    She shook her head slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. The past was a dangerous place to linger. Still, her gaze stayed fixed on the photograph. A part of her couldn’t help but wonder—what would Luke have been like if they’d never crossed paths? Would that boy have grown up to be someone else? Someone better?