~Y/N POV~

The estate feels different at the end of the day.

Quieter.

Not truly quiet. Blackthorn Estate is never completely silent. There is always the distant sound of footsteps somewhere beyond the corridors, the muted voices of servants finishing their work, the low hum of machinery hidden behind the walls.

But the estate's heartbeat slows once dinner is finished.

Most of the important people have disappeared into their private rooms.

Which means there is less for me to do.

I wipe down the last table in the west dining room and check the reflection in the polished surface.

No streaks.

I move on.

Six years of working here has taught me that there is always something else that needs doing.

A vase that needs dusting.

A fireplace that needs clearing.

A corridor that needs sweeping.

A room that needs checking.

I know the estate almost as well as I know my own apartment, or maybe better.

I know which doors stick in damp weather.

Which staircases creak.

Which windows rattle when the wind comes from the north.

I know which rooms are used every day and which can go untouched for weeks.

And I know when I am expected to be somewhere. Or more importantly, I know when I am not.

By the time I finish, the light outside the tall windows has faded into evening.

I collect my cleaning cloths and supplies and make my way toward the servants' staircase.

The staircase is narrow compared to the grand ones used by the family, but it is quicker.

I'm halfway down when I hear footsteps.

I stop.

Someone is coming up.

I look down through the gap between the railings.

My stomach drops.

Jin.

I recognize him immediately.

Even before I see his face properly, there is something unmistakable about him.

White tiger ears rise from his dark hair, and the long white tail behind him moves lazily as he climbs.

His eyes are lowered toward the phone in his hand.

He isn't looking where he's going.

I don't wait for him to notice me.

I move quickly.

I press my back against the wall, pulling myself as far out of the way as the narrow staircase allows.

My cleaning supplies are held tightly against my chest.

My head lowers.

I hold my breath.

He's getting closer.

One step.

Then another.

My heart beats harder.

I shouldn't be in his way.

I shouldn't have been on the stairs at the same time.

I know I'm not supposed to touch any of them unless instructed.

I know better than to make them move around me.

My back presses harder against the stone.

Jin reaches me.

For one awful second, I expect him to stop.

To look at me.

To ask what I'm doing there.

Instead, he simply keeps walking.

His attention never leaves his phone.

He passes so close that I can hear the quiet movement of his clothes.

Then he's gone.

His footsteps continue upward.

I remain against the wall.

One second.

Two second.

Three second.

Only when I can no longer hear him do I finally breathe.

My shoulders loosen.

Nothing happened.

I wasn't shouted at.

I wasn't grabbed.

I wasn't punished.

I wasn't even noticed.

I look down at the cleaning supplies in my arms.

My fingers are still tight around them.

I slowly relax my grip and then I continue down the stairs.

It's strange what you learn to be grateful for.

Being ignored is one of those things.

**********

The kitchen is still warm when I arrive.

Most of the cooking has finished, but the chef is cleaning down the counters.

He's a bear hybrid.

Large enough that he seems to take up half the kitchen whenever he's standing in the middle of it.

His brown ears twitch when he hears me enter.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

Neither of us says anything. We rarely do.

His gaze drops toward the container sitting beside him on the end counter.

Then back to me.

He pushes it across towards me.

"Take it." Chef

That's all he says.

I glance at the container.

There is enough food inside for a proper meal. More than I would usually be able to afford.

"Thank you."

He gives a small grunt and turns back toward the counter.

I pick up the container.

I don't eat here.

I never do.

I take it home.

No one has ever stopped me from taking the leftovers.

Not once.

The chef has never been reprimanded for giving them to me either.

Perhaps no one cares.

Perhaps nobody notices.

Either way, I don't question it.

I know what the food is.

Food that won't be served again.

Food that would otherwise be thrown away.

To someone else, it might be leftovers but to me, it's dinner.

Sometimes it's the only proper meal I'll have that day.

I tuck the container carefully into my bag and leave through the servants' entrance.

The evening air is colder than it was this morning.

I pull my coat tighter around myself.

The walk home isn't long. I make the journey every day.

The estate sits high above most of the city, surrounded by beautiful buildings and wide streets where the lamps work properly and the shops stay open late.

The further I walk, the more the city changes.

The buildings become older.

The roads narrower.

The lights fewer.

The Hollow District.

Home.

At least, that's what I call it.

There isn't much here. There isn't much for humans anywhere.

There are too few of us now.

Too few jobs and too few opportunities.

We're useful when someone needs cheap labour, but otherwise we're easy to forget.

My wages cover the important things.

Rent.

Utilities.

A little food.

And whatever I can save.

I don't have much left after that.

I don't buy things unless I need them.

Most of my clothes are old.

If something tears, I repair it.

If a blanket gets worn through, I patch it.

If I need something new, I try to make it myself.

Sewing costs money too, of course.

Fabric.

Thread.

Needles.

But I enjoy it.

And sometimes I can find scraps cheaply. Sometimes the estate throws out pieces of fabric that are too small for anything important.

Those become useful to me.

I save everything.

My days off are once a week. That's when I need to buy enough food to get me through the day. The other days are easier. The estate provides my meals indirectly.

The leftovers.

The things nobody wants.

It's enough.

It has to be.

**********

I haven't always lived alone.

The thought comes as I reach my building.

Six years ago, I lived here with someone else.

The old groundskeeper.

He worked at Blackthorn Estate for years before I ever stepped through its gates.

I was young when he took me in. Not young enough to forget what it was like to lose people. But young enough that I still remember what it felt like to have someone waiting for me when I came home.

He wasn't family.

Not really.

But he was the closest thing I had.

He was the one who found me work.

He told the estate I was reliable.

Quiet.

Hardworking.

He told them I wouldn't cause trouble.

They believed him. Or perhaps they simply needed another pair of hands.

Either way, I was given a position.

Six years later, I'm still there.

He didn't live long enough to see most of it.

When he died, the estate transferred the apartment into my name because I was already employed there. So I stayed.

The apartment became mine.

Small and old but mine.

I unlock the door.

Inside, everything is exactly where I left it.

One room.

A small bed pushed against the wall.

A tiny kitchenette.

A little table with two chairs, although I've never needed the second one.

A wardrobe.

A bathroom barely large enough to turn around in.

There isn't much decoration. I don't have much to decorate with, but everything is clean.

I put my bag down and then I take out the container.

The smell makes my stomach tighten with hunger.

I sit at the little table and eat. Slowly at first, then faster.

I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

When I finish, I close my eyes for a moment.

Warm food.

A full stomach.

It shouldn't feel like a luxury, but it does.

I wash the container carefully.

I'll take it back tomorrow.

Then I put the dishes away and change into an old pair of clothes.

My work uniform is folded neatly for the morning.

Everything ready and everything in its place.

I sit on my bed and reach beneath it.

My sewing box comes out.

Inside are spools of thread, needles, scissors and little pieces of fabric sorted into piles.

I pull out the blanket I've been working on.

It's slowly getting bigger.

The fabric is mismatched, but I like it that way. Every piece has been saved from somewhere.

A scrap from an old dress.

A piece from a worn shirt.

Something I found in a discarded box.

Nothing beautiful on its own.

Together, they become something warm.

Something useful.

Something mine.

I thread the needle.

The apartment settles around me.

For a while, there is nothing except the soft pull of thread through fabric.

No footsteps in grand corridors.

No orders.

No eyes watching me.

No need to move out of someone's way.

Just me.

My blanket.

My little apartment.

The quiet.

Tomorrow, I'll wake before the sun.

I'll walk back to Blackthorn Estate.

I'll clean their rooms.

I'll keep my head down.

And I'll come home again.

It's not much of a life.

But it's mine.