Cabin Red

Why do people believe themselves immortal?

Is it because, in youth, we feel untouchable—healthy, unbreakable, as though neither time nor death could ever reach us? We exist in the height of our vitality, reckless and unafraid, making careless choices with the quiet assurance that we have years—decades—before consequence comes to collect.

But we are not immortal.

Nothing is.

I think of my mother.

It is the day of her funeral. The last of the guests departed over an hour ago, their murmured condolences still lingering in the halls of our home like ghosts unwilling to leave. And now, I stand alone upon the cliff that has been my refuge for as long as I can remember.

Before me, the sea rages—vast and restless. The sun kisses its surface, turning it to molten gold despite its fury. It is beautiful in a way that feels eternal, untouched by the fleeting nature of human life.

This view… this is immortal.

We are not.

I feel like a stain upon such perfection. Cloaked in black, my mourning dress clings tightly to my body, the corset cinched so cruelly it feels as though it might crush the breath from my lungs. My veil, now pushed back, whips wildly in the wind.

If someone were to see me now, I imagine I would appear as a contradiction—grief personified standing against the backdrop of something timeless and serene.

And yet… I do not feel as sorrowful as I should.

I should be inside, weeping in the rooms that still carry my mother’s presence. Curled beside the fire in my stepfather's study, overcome with grief.

But I cannot bring myself to return indoors.

Instead, I stand here, unmoving.

The anger within me mirrors the sea—wild, crashing, relentless. I feel as though I could scream into the wind, fall to my knees, and tear at the earth beneath me.

But I do none of those things.

I remain perfectly still, just as I had throughout the entirety of the funeral, my composure unshaken, my expression unreadable.

It is what I was taught.

A lady does not display her emotions. She is to be poised, composed—perfect. A doll.

No one truly wishes to know what you feel. What you think.

I learned that lesson young.

After my father took his own life, I had wept for days, unable to comprehend the loss. My mother had locked herself away in her chambers for nearly a week. And when she finally emerged, she was… different.

Colder.

The woman who had once laughed, who had once loved so openly, was gone.

In her place stood someone hardened by betrayal and ruin.

My father had not only abandoned us in death, but in disgrace. His gambling debts—unknown to my mother—had left us with nothing. With no choice, she remarried swiftly, accepting a man chosen by her own father. A man willing to settle the debts and take her, even with a child in tow.

From that moment on, my mother became something else entirely.

Bitter. Unpredictable. A storm barely contained.

And I… I learned to stay out of her path.

After enough punishments—lashes and beatings delivered for reasons I could scarcely understand—I became what she demanded of me.

Silent. Obedient. Invisible.

A doll.

It was safer that way.

My stepfather died five years into their marriage. There were whispers, of course—quiet, venomous rumors that my mother had poisoned him.

I should know.

I was there that night.

I close my eyes, drawing in a slow, steady breath. The sun warms my skin as the sound of crashing waves fills my ears, washing over me, carrying away the weight of memory—if only for a moment.

How easy it would be to disappear.

To become one with the sea… a single droplet among millions.

Or to vanish into the wind, untethered, free from the cruelty of this life.

“Miss Vale!”

The voice breaks through the stillness, accompanied by hurried footsteps across the grass. I take one final breath before opening my eyes and turning to face Mrs. Crook, our housemaid.

Her round face is flushed, her expression uneasy.

“Miss Vale,” she says, slightly breathless. “There is a gentleman in the drawing room. I let him in—he insisted it was urgent. He says it concerns your mother’s will and that he must speak with you at once.”

I do not speak as I turn away from the beauty of my escape, leaving the cliff behind. My steps are quick as I make my way toward the back entrance of the mansion.

The house itself is a towering example of Victorian Gothic architecture—dark, imposing, and severe. My stepfather had possessed a particular fondness for such things. I suspect it frightened away more guests than it ever welcomed.

I enter through the back door, removing my mourning veil and leaving it draped carelessly in the hallway. Without pausing, I make my way toward the drawing room.

It is the back of a tall, willowy man that first catches my attention.

His posture is straight, his frame slender, and his head crowned with a full head of white hair. I slow, then stop entirely.

He seems… familiar.

I am certain I have seen him before. Perhaps at my stepfather’s funeral… or was it my father’s?

I step fully into the room, making my presence known.

At once, he turns. His eyes sweep over me briefly before settling on my face. There is something kind in his expression—gentle, even—and in that moment, I am certain.

Yes.

I had seen him before.

At my father’s funeral.

“Miss Vale,” he says softly, inclining his head. “You have my deepest condolences. I am terribly sorry to call upon you on a day such as this. I would not have come if the matter were not of some urgency.”

His voice is measured, lowered, as though in an effort to spare me further distress.

I nod once and gesture toward the armchair.

“Please, have a seat, sir—”

I take my place upon the couch as he sets down his briefcase and settles into the armchair opposite me.

“I am Mr. Fellow,” he begins, “though I insist you call me Charles. It is what everyone calls me.”

“Charles,” I repeat quietly, inclining my head in acknowledgment.

He crosses one leg over the other, resting his hands neatly upon the arms of the chair.

“Would you care for some tea?” I offer, more out of habit than genuine intent.

He shakes his head.

“No, thank you, Miss Vale. I am afraid I am pressed for time. I was sent here with some urgency.”

“Very well,” I reply, straightening slightly, folding my hands neatly in my lap. “Please, continue.”

He hesitates briefly, as though choosing his words with care.

“I am not certain you remember me, as we have never been formally introduced,” he says. “I am your grandfather’s lawyer—and a close friend. I attended your father’s funeral.”

I nod faintly, confirming what I had already suspected.

“You see,” he continues, “your mother entrusted me with the drafting of her will. However… last month, she requested that it be altered.”

Something tightens in my chest.

“It would appear,” he says carefully, “that your mother has left the entirety of her estate to an organization—one with which she had been privately involved.”

I stare at him.

“I am not at liberty to disclose the nature of this organization,” he adds, almost apologetically. “But I regret to inform you that… you have been left with nothing.”

The words strike harder than I expect.

Nothing.

“I—” My voice falters. I rise abruptly from the couch, unable to remain still. “Charles… how can this be? You expect me to believe my mother would leave her only child with nothing? That she would give everything away to some… unknown organization—one I am not even permitted to know of?”

I begin to pace, my composure slipping.

Charles watches me with a mixture of sympathy and discomfort.

“I am truly sorry, Miss Vale,” he says. “I questioned her decision at the time, but she refused to offer any explanation. She was… quite firm.”

I stop pacing, turning to face him.

“Your grandfather has been informed,” he continues. “He is currently in London for the Season, but upon hearing of your mother’s passing, he has already begun his journey back to his country estate. He has requested that you come to live with him.”

I stare at him in silence.

Shock settles into something colder.

Something sharper.

Whatever anger I had felt toward my mother begins to twist into something far more bitter.

Disgust.

“I see,” I say at last, my voice quieter now, steadier.

There is nothing left for me here.

“Then I shall pack my belongings,” I continue, “and vacate this house—which now, it seems, belongs to strangers.”

I release a slow breath.

Perhaps it is for the best.

This place has never held anything but ghosts.

Charles rises to his feet.

“If it is agreeable to you, we may travel together,” he says. “I am due to return to your grandfather’s estate on business. I shall arrive at seven this evening with a carriage. We will make for the station and take the train.”

My mind feels distant, as though I am moving through a dream.

“Very well,” I reply. “I will be ready.”

He places his hat upon his head and inclines it politely.

“Until this evening, Miss Vale.”

And with that, he turns and departs—leaving me alone once more in the remnants of a life that no longer belongs to me.

I should have felt abandoned.

Instead… I felt as though something had just begun.