The first thing Evan ever remembered was loneliness.

He grew up in a cold house with a detached father and an absent mother — the kind of absence that didn’t come from another room but from another life entirely. His youth passed like the seasons outside his window: distant, gray, and unremarkable. His father’s death hadn’t come as a shock, nor did it particularly bother him. The only inconvenience was that it meant uprooting his otherwise comfortable life in France and moving to England — to strangers who called themselves family.

Evan knew he had relatives in London, though he’d never met them. His father made sure of that, filling his head with excuses and lies about why they never visited. But death has a way of unmaking plans, and with no family left in France, Evan was shipped off to London to live with his aunt and her daughters. He didn’t remember Druella or his cousins, and now he stood before their grand townhouse in the middle of the gray city, rain beginning to come down in steady drops.

Evan felt like a lost puppy — a burden thrown upon a woman who probably cared no more for him than his father ever had. But it didn’t matter. It was only two years. Then he’d disappear from her life, and she from his, along with everyone else.

He prided himself on never needing anyone — not a father, not friends - definitely not a mother. Evan preferred solitude. He thrived on observing others, staying distant from the chaos of his peers. His world, built of quiet wonder and fragile freedom, was enough. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Evan hesitated before the door, raindrops sliding down the back of his neck, soaking through his jacket. The townhouse loomed above him, tall and stern, as though it too was assessing him and finding him wanting. He tapped his fingers against the strap of his bag — a steady, compulsive rhythm. Three taps, pause, three more. It was a habit he’d developed in boarding school, a small ritual to ward off the chaos he couldn’t control.

This house didn’t feel like a home.