seven | 07.

TO SAVE A SOUL.

    The next day dawned gray and dreary, the sky a thick blanket of storm clouds that smothered the sun with the threat of rain.

    Daphne woke early, her sleep troubled and shallow, haunted by fragmented dreams of dark corridors and hollow eyes watching her from the shadows.

    The events of the previous night felt like a surreal, but as she lay in bed, staring at the faded ceiling, she knew it had all been real. Brahms was still here, somewhere within the walls of the mansion, waiting for her.

    She dressed quickly, pulling on a simple sweater and jeans to warm her chilling arms.

    The house was quiet as she made her way downstairs, the floorboards creaking underfoot. She half-expected Brahms to be waiting for her in the kitchen, but when she arrived, the room was empty, the only sound the faint ticking of the old clock on the wall.

    Daphne poured herself a cup of coffee, more out of habit than desire, and sat at the table, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for some sign of him. But there was nothing—no movement, no noise.

    She wondered if he was angry, if he had regretted the truce they had formed the night before. The thought was off putting to her.

    She knew she was playing a dangerous game, but something inside her wouldn't let her walk away—not yet. Not until she understood him, and perhaps, understood herself in the process.

    As she sipped her coffee, trying to shake off the lingering fatigue, she heard a faint sound—a soft rustling, like the movement of fabric against wood.

    She froze, her senses heightening, and slowly turned her head toward the source of the noise. It was coming from the living room, just beyond the kitchen.

    Daphne set down her cup, her heart beginning to race. She stood and moved cautiously toward the sound, each step deliberate, her breath shallow. The door to the living room was ajar, and as she approached, the rustling grew louder, more distinct.

    Pushing the door open, she found herself standing at the threshold of the dimly lit room. The curtains were still drawn, casting the space in deep shadows.

    At first, she saw nothing out of the ordinary—just the furniture and the fireplace. But then, her eyes were drawn to the couch, where a figure sat hunched over, partially hidden in the gloom.

    "Brahms?" She called out, taking a tentative step forward.

    He stirred, and she saw him more clearly from that movement. He was wearing the same clothes she had seen him in the night before, his hair wild and unkempt. For a moment, he didn't respond, and Daphne felt a pang of anxiety tighten in her chest.

    Finally, he spoke, his voice a low murmur. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

    Daphne hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She had promised to stay, but now, in the cold light of day, she wasn't sure what that meant.

    "I said I wouldn't go." She replied eventually, trying to keep her voice steady. "I want to help you, Brahms. But...I need to understand. Why did you do what you did? I know you hurt people."

    He shifted in his seat once again, his shoulders tensing. "They hurt me first." He said, his voice sharp with the same bitterness from before. "They were afraid of me. All of them."

    Daphne took another step closer, her heart aching at the pain in his voice. She could hear the years of isolation within it.

    But she could also tell that there was still a part of him—a small, fragile part—that longed for connection, for someone to see him as more than a monster.

    "I'm not afraid of you." She soothed, kneeling beside the couch so she could see his masked face. "I want to understand, Brahms. But you have to let me in. You have to trust me."

    He was silent for a long moment, as if weighing her words, trying to decide if he could believe them.

    Daphne reached out, her hand hovering over his, unsure if he would accept the gesture. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he allowed her to take his hand in hers, his grip tentative, as if he wasn't sure how to react to the simple touch.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their hands intertwined in the dim light of the room. The mansion, with all its darkness and secrets, seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting to see what would happen next.

She wasn't sure if she could save Brahms, or if he even wanted to be saved. But she had made a promise, and she intended to keep it.

Daphne released his hand and looked at him, her eyes scanning over his disheveled appearance. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, his hair a tangled mess.

    She knew that if they were going to move forward, if there was any hope of reaching him, she needed to start by helping him with the basics.

    "You need a shower." She said firmly, breaking the silence. "And some clean clothes. It'll make you feel better."

    Brahms hesitated, his gaze flickering with uncertainty, but he didn't resist. Instead, he looked at her as if trying to gauge her sincerity, to see if there was any hidden agenda behind her words.

    When he found none, he nodded slowly, a small gesture of trust.

    Daphne stood, offering her hand to him once more. "Come on." She encouraged. "You can use my bathroom."

    He took her hand, his grip still unsure, and she led him out of the dim living room and up the stairs to her bedroom.

    They reached her room, and she guided him toward the adjoining bathroom.

    "The shower's in here." Daphne said, opening the door and flicking on the light. The bathroom was small but clean, the white tiles gleaming under the soft glow of the bulb. "Take your time. I'll go find you some clothes for you."

    Brahms lingered in the doorway, his expression unreadable, before finally stepping inside. He glanced back at her, a question in his eyes, but she simply smiled, giving him the space he needed.

    "I'll be right back." She reassured him, and then she quietly closed the door, leaving him alone to shower.

    As soon as she heard the water running, Daphne hurried down the hall to the master bedroom. She hadn't spent much time in this part of the house, the room feeling almost off-limits, as it had originally been Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire's room.

    But she knew that if there were any clean clothes left in this mansion, they would be there.

    She pushed open the door to the master bedroom, her footsteps muffled by the thick, red carpet. The room was grand, with heavy, dark wood furniture and a feeling of neglect that clung to every surface.

    The bed was still made, as if its occupants had simply stepped out and never returned, leaving the past to settle into the fabric of the place. Well, Daphne supposed that that was exactly what had happened.

    Daphne went to the large wardrobe against the wall, her fingers brushing against the smooth, polished wood as she opened the doors.

    Inside, she found a collection of men's clothing, old but well-made, the kind of garments that spoke of a rather wealthy man. She pulled out a pair of slacks, a white dress shirt, and a dark sweater—simple, practical pieces that she assumed had belonged to Brahms' father.

    The thought of dressing him in his dead father's clothes made her stomach churn uncomfortably, but she pushed the feeling aside. He needed something clean to wear, and this was all she could come up with on the spot.

    She gathered the clothes and returned to her bedroom, her heart pounding a little faster as she approached the door.

    The sound of the shower was still going, the steady patter of water against tile a comforting rhythm in the otherwise silent house. Daphne set the clothes on the edge of the bed and then sat down, her hands resting in her lap as she waited.

    Her mind wandered as she sat there, listening to the water. She couldn't help but think about the enormity of what she was trying to do—of what it would mean to save someone like Brahms, if it were even possible.

    Could she really help him? Or was she deluding herself, believing that she could reach a man who had lived away from society for so long?

    The water finally shut off, and Daphne's breath caught in her throat as she heard the faint rustle of movement from the bathroom. She stood, smoothing down her sweater as she did, and glanced toward the closed door, waiting for Brahms to emerge.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Brahms stepped out, his presence filling the room with a tension that hadn't been there before. His mask was once again secured tightly over his face, hiding his features except for his dark, expressive eyes.

His hair, now slicked wet against his forehead, framed the mask in a way that made Daphne swallow thickly.

He stood there in the doorway, as if waiting for her instruction.

She took a deep breath and then stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a wild animal. Without a word, she reached for the clean clothes she had placed on the bed and held them out to him.

"Here." She said, meeting his gaze. "I found these in the master bedroom. I think they'll fit you."

Brahms stared at the clothes for a long moment, his eyes flicking between them and her face. Slowly, he reached out and took the clothes from her hands, careful to avoid touching her.

"These were my fathers." He murmured, the words muffled slightly by the mask.

END OF CHAPTER VII.