Adam's boots crunched on the gravel, each step measured and silent despite the weight of the duffel bag slung across his shoulder. The sky was a pale, uncertain gray, and the air tasted of rain and old memories. He paused at the iron gates, their black bars twisted into ornate spirals, and pressed his palm to the cool metal. The gates were taller than he remembered, or perhaps he was simply taller now—fifteen, lean and wiry, his muscles honed by years of relentless training.
He waited for the gates to open, as instructed in the letter. The letter had come two days after his grandfather's death, written in his mother's elegant hand. It had been brief: "Adam, please come home. We miss you. The driver will be waiting." No mention of the years lost, the silence, or the reasons why he'd been taken away. No mention of the man who had shaped him into something sharp and dangerous.
A black sedan idled on the other side of the gate. The driver—a middle-aged man with a kind face—nodded to Adam as the gates swung open. Adam slipped inside, his movements fluid and economical, and settled into the back seat. He kept his eyes on the passing scenery: manicured lawns, ancient oaks, the distant glint of the lake. The estate was vast, a world unto itself, and Adam felt like a ghost drifting through it.
He barely remembered the house. He'd been five when his grandfather had come for him, a shadow at the edge of the family's laughter. The old man had spoken little, but his presence was a command. Adam had gone without protest, not understanding that he was leaving behind more than just a home.
The car stopped before the mansion's grand entrance. White columns soared skyward, and wide steps led up to double doors carved with intricate patterns. Adam hesitated, his hand on the door handle. He could feel the weight of the knives in his bag, the familiar press of cold steel. He'd brought them out of habit, unsure if he would need them in this new world.
He stepped out, rain beginning to fall in soft, persistent drops. The doors opened before he could reach them. A girl stood in the doorway, her hair a tumble of golden curls, her eyes wide with disbelief. She was taller than he remembered, almost his height now, but her face was unmistakable—his older sister, Elizabeth.
"Adam?" she breathed, as if afraid he might vanish.
He nodded, unsure what to say. Words felt foreign, clumsy things. For years, silence had been his shield.
Elizabeth stared at him for a heartbeat, then rushed forward and threw her arms around him. Adam stiffened, instinctively tensing, but she held on, her embrace fierce and trembling.
"You're really here," she whispered. "You're home."
Behind her, a chorus of voices erupted. Children spilled into the foyer—six girls in total, one older, five younger, each with varying shades of hair and eyes, all talking at once. Two little boys darted around their sisters, their laughter ringing through the hall. Adam stood in the center of the chaos, his duffel bag still slung over his shoulder, unsure whether to drop it or cling to it.
"Let him breathe, Lizzie!" one of the younger girls giggled, tugging at Elizabeth's sleeve.
Elizabeth released him with a sheepish smile, brushing away tears. "Sorry, I just— We've missed you so much."
Adam glanced at the others. The youngest, a girl with pigtails, peered up at him with solemn eyes. "Are you really our brother?" she asked.
He nodded again, feeling the weight of their gazes. He had faced men twice his size, survived tests that would break most adults, but this—this was something else entirely.
"Come inside," Elizabeth said, taking his hand. "You must be cold. And hungry. Mama's been cooking all morning."
Adam let himself be led into the house. The foyer was warm and bright, the air scented with cinnamon and fresh bread. Portraits lined the walls—family members, ancestors, a history he barely knew. The others clustered around him, introducing themselves in a flurry of names and ages.
"I'm Sophie, I'm ten!"
"Lucy, I'm eight!"
"Clara, I'm twelve!"
"Emily, I'm six!"
"Rose, I'm thirteen!"
"And I'm James!" one of the boys piped up. "I'm nine. That's Henry, he's seven."
Adam struggled to keep up, their voices overlapping. He tried to memorize their faces, their smiles, the way they looked at him with open curiosity and affection. He felt raw and exposed, as if they could see the scars beneath his skin.
Their mother appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She descended slowly, her gaze never leaving Adam's face.
"Adam," she said softly, her voice trembling. "Welcome home, darling."
He wanted to say something, to apologize for his absence, to explain the years lost to shadows and silence. But the words caught in his throat. Instead, he let her embrace him, her arms gentle and warm. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe he belonged here, in this house filled with light and laughter.
Dinner was a noisy affair. The table groaned under the weight of roast chicken, potatoes, and fresh bread. The children chattered, telling stories and jokes, their laughter filling the room. Adam ate quietly, listening, observing. He answered their questions with brief replies, careful not to reveal too much. He was used to secrets, to hiding the truth.
After dinner, the younger children drifted off to bed, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Elizabeth and his mother lingered at the table, watching Adam with a mixture of relief and concern.
"You've grown so much," his mother said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "We're just glad you're safe."
Adam looked at her, at Elizabeth, at the remnants of the meal. He wanted to ask why they had let him go, why they hadn't come for him. But he saw the pain in their eyes, the guilt they carried, and he stayed silent.
That night, alone in his new room, Adam unpacked his duffel bag. He placed the knives in a drawer, hidden beneath his clothes. He ran his fingers over the leather-bound journal, its pages filled with his grandfather's lessons—cold, precise, merciless.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of his family. Laughter. Music. The soft murmur of voices.
He did not know how to be a brother, a son, a part of this world. But as he drifted into uneasy sleep, he wondered if, just maybe, he could learn.