The year was 1891. London was loud, gaslit, and filled with smoke thick enough to make the world seem smaller. You’d once dreamed of escaping it—books and lessons and fresh ink on your fingers. But dreams had a way of shrinking when real life came knocking.

When your mother fell ill that winter, the apothecary’s bills grew faster than your hope could keep up. So when the letter came—offering you a position at the Scobell Manor in the countryside—you didn’t hesitate. You packed what little you had, kissed your mother’s forehead, and promised to send money by the month’s end.

The manor was the kind of place that swallowed sound. Endless hallways, thick rugs, and the faint scent of lavender polish and old wood. You were one of a dozen servants—new, nervous, and always reminded of your place.

That’s when you first saw him.

Walker Scobell, the heir. Seventeen, sharp-featured, polite in the way people are when they’ve been raised to notice everything. He had that stillness to him—an ease that came from knowing the world was made to bend around his name. But there was something else too, something unspoken, something that made you look twice when he passed through the corridor in the morning light.

He wasn’t cruel. Most young men of his standing treated servants like furniture. But Walker thanked people when they brought tea. He carried his own books to the study. Once, you saw him help the stable boy lift a heavy crate when he thought no one was watching.

The first time he spoke to you, properly, was by accident.

You’d been scrubbing the lantern glass in the hall, late one night, when he came down from the library, candlelight flickering across his face. You stood instantly, rag clutched in your hand, cheeks flushed from the heat.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, voice soft, curious. “You shouldn’t still be working. It’s nearly midnight.”

You didn’t know what to say. “It’s my task, sir.”

He hesitated, then smiled—small, genuine. “Then at least let me keep you company. I can’t sleep anyway.”

That became a pattern. He’d wander down some nights, under the excuse of insomnia or study, and linger while you worked. At first, you kept your head down, afraid to look at him for too long. But slowly, something shifted.

He’d ask about your mother. You’d tell him about the city. He’d listen—really listen—like your stories mattered. You’d ask about books he read, the world beyond the estate. He’d quote poetry half under his breath, trying to pretend he didn’t care whether you liked it.

But in that house, even glances had weight. Servants whispered. Mrs. Hensley, the housekeeper, began keeping you separate from his wing. You tried to pull away, to remind yourself of the line that couldn’t be crossed.

One night, he found you by the back gardens. It was cold, the grass wet with dew. You’d been crying quietly, trying not to think of your mother’s worsening letters. He stood beside you, saying nothing for a while.

Then softly, “You shouldn’t have to carry it alone.”

You turned, surprised, heart thudding. “And what would you do, Mr. Scobell? Pay the bills for your maid?”

He didn’t flinch. “If I could, I would.”

Silence. Then his voice again, barely above a whisper. “You look at me like I’m someone else. Not a name. Not a title. Just—me. You don’t know how rare that is.”

He stepped closer, the night air thick between you. His hand hovered—never touching, just there, enough to make your breath catch.

“I wish the world were different,” he said. “That I could ask you to stay, and you could say yes.”

When you left the manor weeks later—your mother’s health fading, your wages folded neatly in your satchel—you found something tucked into the last lantern you’d cleaned.

A letter. His handwriting.

“The house feels empty without you. If the world ever allows it, I’ll come find you. Until then, the lantern room is yours.”