Chapter 1.1 : Opening Image
Start of Part 1 : House on the Hill
Start of Chapter 1 : House on the Hill
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A grey morning in Newlands, Cape Town.
The fog clings to the windows like breath. Outside, the world is washed pale. Tree branches blurred like charcoal sketches. The lawn drenched in a quiet so complete it feels intentional.
Inside, the kitchen is a shrine to silence.
Lewis Evans stands barefoot on the cool marble floor, still in last night's hoodie and sweatpants.
His left foot taps quietly, rhythmically, against the bottom drawer near the fridge, but the rest of him is still. Except for his eyes. They flicker. Like he's trying not to exist too loudly.
He eats cold cereal from a crystal bowl.
Milk thins the soggy loops, dissolving them into something soft and colourless. The bowl was a gift from his mother's art dealer friend. Cut glass, heavy, completely absurd. Lewis eats from it because it's the only thing in the kitchen that doesn't feel like it belongs to them anymore.
The house around him is massive. Open-plan. Triple-volume ceilings. Curated like a museum exhibit called "What the Rich Think Grief Looks Like." A grand piano no one touches. A wine fridge filled with labels no one drinks. Black-and-white portraits hung with perfect spacing down the hallway. Like a family of ghosts caught mid-thought.
On the counter beside him. One unwashed coffee mug. His, from yesterday. It's stained at the bottom with the outline of instant coffee and insomnia.
A soft beep from the fridge reminds him it's still open. He closes it with his elbow. Lifts another spoonful of cereal, and chews.
His thoughts drift. Not far. Just to the edges of himself.
"People think money makes you whole," he thinks. "But this house is a shrine. Not a home. It's where grief sits on designer couches and sips imported mineral water."
He stares at the fog beyond the sliding doors. The hills are still asleep. The garden is drenched. Somewhere in the deep green beyond the hedges, the koi pond gurgles.
He wonders if they fed the fish while he was gone. Wonders if it even matters.
He finishes the last spoonful, places the crystal bowl into the sink with a soft clink, and leaves it there. No one will complain. There's no one to complain. The cleaner only comes on Mondays and Fridays. Today is Tuesday.
He passes the staircase slowly, hand grazing the polished banister.
The portrait of Ezra still hangs in the hallway. Mid-laugh. School blazer slightly crooked. Wind in his hair. Frozen in that one perfect moment just before the end.
Lewis doesn't look directly at it. Not today.
Instead, he moves toward the stairs. The silence following him like a well-trained pet.
The house doesn't creak. It doesn't groan. It just waits.
Upstairs, somewhere behind the fogged windows, the day is beginning for everyone else.
Down here, in the stillness of marble and memory, Lewis Evans swallows back the ache and begins again.
