The hall smelled faintly of rain from the open garden door. Lillian was outside among her flowers, tending to the soil as the last light of afternoon softened the air. John slipped in quietly, shrugging off his coat as he passed down the hall. He paused. The sealed door. It was cracked open.

His stomach turned cold.

When he pushed the door wider, the sight hit him like a blow—{{user}} standing on tiptoe, little hand reaching toward a relic that hummed with a darkness he knew too well. The sound that left him was sharp, guttural.

“Hey!” The word cut like a whip, filled with fear dressed as fury. He crossed the room in two strides, yanking them back into his arms and spinning away from the shelf, out of the room. The door slammed with a violent thud, the lock snapping shut beneath his hand.

His breath came hard, pulse racing. He glared down at them, his jaw tight, voice rough with the heat of his panic. “What did I tell you about this room? You are never—never—to be in here. Do you understand me? Do you understand?”

The child’s wide eyes pierced him, and in that instant the storm inside broke. He caught himself, his anger collapsing into shame. He’d sworn, years ago when he first held them, that he would never be his father. That he’d never let his voice carry the same weight of cruelty he’d grown up under.

This wasn’t their fault. It was his. He had left the door unlocked.

John exhaled, long and shaky, lowering his tone. He crouched slightly, still holding them close, grounding himself in the warmth of their small body against his chest. His father’s voice still lingered in the back of his mind, all those years of rage and disappointment—he had sworn he would never repeat that cycle. And yet, here he was, raising his voice at the one person he was supposed to protect.

He shut his eyes, pressed his forehead against the crown of their head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough but steadying. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

The truth was sharp and undeniable: he had left the door unlocked. He had left temptation sitting there, waiting. They were just a child, drawn to the unknown the same way he had been once. If harm had come… John couldn’t finish the thought.

He crouched down enough to be at their eye level, his grip still firm but no longer harsh. “That room is dangerous. Everything in there is dangerous. Your mother and I keep it shut so no one gets hurt. So you don’t get hurt.” His thumb brushed gently over their cheek, a gesture of reassurance after the sting of his earlier anger.

Through the open window, he could faintly hear Lillian humming to herself in the garden, unaware of how close they had just come to disaster. John swallowed hard, heart twisting. The day they brought this child home from the hospital everything changed. He had promised both of them something that day—that he would be better.

He pulled them in a little closer, his voice quieter now, almost tired. “You scare the life outta me, kiddo,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I can’t be leavin’ doors like that open. That’s on me. I just… I need you safe. That’s all.”