I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi’s shoulders draw up automatically at the nudge, spine straightening like he’s bracing for impact, not camaraderie. He keeps his eyes lowered, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth in the way a thread pulls from a sleeve, unintentional and not especially helpful. "Yep," he mutters, barely above a breath, like agreement is something to be ashamed of.
"I’ll go have a wander," he says, glancing past Ronin toward the house with the casual air of someone claiming the easy job. "Might help. Less chance of me tripping over my own feet later." He half-chuckles under his breath, a sound with more self-deprecation than humour. "Again."
With the camera crew repositioning for Ronin’s next monologue (this one likely to feature tasteful zoom-ins on peeling wallpaper and tragic violins in post), Remi slips away through the front door, leaving the low hum of production behind him. The moment he’s out of frame, the house seems to exhale around him.
The interior smells of old dust, maybe mildew, and something sharper beneath it. He moves slowly, running a hand lightly along the wall as he drifts past what was once a sitting room, then down the main hallway where family photos might have hung. The floors creak in complaint with every step, but he treads light, more guest than ghost hunter. When he reaches the kitchen, the overhead light doesn’t work. He flicks the switch anyway, out of habit or hope, and the silence that follows feels somehow thicker for the asking. He lingers, gaze skimming the old countertops, the curled linoleum underfoot, the fridge with its yellowing magnets.
Then he turns toward the dining room, and stops in the threshold. It’s an ordinary space. Wooden table, long enough for six, with mismatched chairs and a china hutch still pressed against one wall. The windows are shuttered. The light, such as it is, slants in from the hallway behind him. But something in the air is different here.
The chairs are tucked in, all of them except one. The farthest, at the head of the table, is drawn slightly back, not dramatically, just enough to feel like someone’s about to sit down. Or just did. No doubt Isla will love that.
Remi squints, something low and cold curling near his stomach as he considers the Reddit post he'd read the night before. Barely a sentence, halfway down a paragraph in a blog post that was more caps lock than credibility. Still, he reaches absently for the cross at his chest. Doesn’t kiss it this time, just touches it, like a man checking a lock that should be secure.
"I’ll go have a wander," he says, glancing past Ronin toward the house with the casual air of someone claiming the easy job. "Might help. Less chance of me tripping over my own feet later." He half-chuckles under his breath, a sound with more self-deprecation than humour. "Again."
With the camera crew repositioning for Ronin’s next monologue (this one likely to feature tasteful zoom-ins on peeling wallpaper and tragic violins in post), Remi slips away through the front door, leaving the low hum of production behind him. The moment he’s out of frame, the house seems to exhale around him.
The interior smells of old dust, maybe mildew, and something sharper beneath it. He moves slowly, running a hand lightly along the wall as he drifts past what was once a sitting room, then down the main hallway where family photos might have hung. The floors creak in complaint with every step, but he treads light, more guest than ghost hunter. When he reaches the kitchen, the overhead light doesn’t work. He flicks the switch anyway, out of habit or hope, and the silence that follows feels somehow thicker for the asking. He lingers, gaze skimming the old countertops, the curled linoleum underfoot, the fridge with its yellowing magnets.
Then he turns toward the dining room, and stops in the threshold. It’s an ordinary space. Wooden table, long enough for six, with mismatched chairs and a china hutch still pressed against one wall. The windows are shuttered. The light, such as it is, slants in from the hallway behind him. But something in the air is different here.
The chairs are tucked in, all of them except one. The farthest, at the head of the table, is drawn slightly back, not dramatically, just enough to feel like someone’s about to sit down. Or just did. No doubt Isla will love that.
Remi squints, something low and cold curling near his stomach as he considers the Reddit post he'd read the night before. Barely a sentence, halfway down a paragraph in a blog post that was more caps lock than credibility. Still, he reaches absently for the cross at his chest. Doesn’t kiss it this time, just touches it, like a man checking a lock that should be secure.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
