The doorknob turned, and the door creaked open. A faint mumble escaped the thin lips of the young girl.
Her green eyes met Charles's, who looked back, startled.
She stood there, eyes heavy with exhaustion, her expression deadpan.
"Are you going to move…?"
"Uh—"
Charles blinked a few times, minor panic flooding his mind as he searched desperately for anything to say that wouldn't seem out of character for Erwin.
To Erwin, this would have been a typical interaction, but it was the first time Charles had met her.
Torn between Erwin's memories and his own, only awkwardness remained.
"I need to use the restroom, brother…"
"O-Oh! Right, of course, my apologies!"
Charles immediately stepped aside, slipping past Erwin's sister. She closed the door behind her and turned the lock. The click echoed briefly in the hallway.
Close, I suppose…? Thank the darkness for hiding that hole in my shirt…
He muttered this under his breath as he made his way upstairs.
On the third floor, he reached his family's apartment. A small entryway greeted him, with two closets on either side for shoes and coats.
Charles took off the light brown trench coat and placed it in the closet to the left, then set his leather shoes inside the closet to the right.
He stepped forward, leaving the narrow entryway and entering the living room. It was incredibly cluttered—filled with old memories and worn furniture.
Memories gently drifted into his mind, a pressure forming at the back of his head as he observed his surroundings.
This is… confusing. It feels so familiar yet so new…
To the left stood the dining table, crammed against the wall where a window used to be. During the building's extension, they had sealed the window, leaving a slab of white plaster behind.
Jeez, they could've at least painted it over…
Erwin and his family never truly cared, lacking the means to replicate the wallpaper—deep green with black lines forming flower motifs. It would have been elegant if not for the yellowing walls and the mismatched plaster.
Charles found it strangely familiar and beautiful, yet still odd and old-fashioned.
There were five chairs: two at opposite ends of the table so Owen and Seline could face each other, and two more shoved against the wall—backs pressed directly against Elira's bedroom door. Those belonged to Erwin and Elira. The fifth chair, Gregor's, sat abandoned in the corner.
Charles questioned why they'd block Elira's room, but Erwin's memories rose again to answer. Every time Charles questioned something, the memories surfaced to explain it.
The explanation was simply a lack of space and of care.
There was only a counter fixed against the wall and a stove adjacent to a small kitchen sink, which the family tried to avoid using to prevent excessive water taxes. They filled it once a week and used that limited water to wash their dishes.
The center of the room served as a living space, featuring three sofas, one positioned beside the dining table. A small coffee table sat in the middle, accompanied by tea sets. The family had breakfast there every day instead of at the cramped kitchen table.
A large sofa for three and a rocking chair sat at opposite ends of the coffee table, mirroring the long shape of the kitchen table. The right side of the room was filled with trophies, pictures, and paintings, all covered with white sheets.
Some boxes had never been opened. All the family's more luxurious items had been dumped there, left unsold out of the parents' pride and nostalgia.
To the right of the entrance, through a door accessed from the living room, was the bathroom.
Charles stepped toward it, intending to continue his mental search there—but the moment he reached for the doorknob, another surge of memories hit him. His chest tightened.
Gregor.
This memory targeted Erwin's older brother. A brilliant and protective brother.
No—something twisted. The memory twisted like static on a television screen, distorting the image, shifting between two versions: a criminal, abusive brother, and a kind-hearted one.
Gregor had great potential and promise, yet he was sent to jail for two years. Erwin's memories insisted it was deserved, and the recollection tried to shut down there.
But Charles felt something was wrong. He took a step back and sat on the floor, closing his eyes tightly, furrowing his brows as he forced the memories to rise.
My head is burning! What's going on? Why does Erwin have contradicting memories?
A memory surfaced—his parents' pain as they paid Gregor's bail. The offence wasn't significant enough to deserve the death penalty or even a year of jail—only half a year at most.
Yet rumours spread like wildfire afterward. Owen and Seline's reputations, built over years, collapsed over a single scandal.
Their mother suffered from hysteria ever since. Their father developed a deep hatred for Gregor. He often reminded them to act as the law dictated, not to follow in his footsteps.
Is that how they treat the man who keeps them afloat?
Charles felt outrage at how they treated Gregor, yet Erwin's hatred pushed against him.
Gregor's arrest was sudden, but Erwin's memories tried to convince Charles that it was expected.
Erwin and his family paid for that arrest. Seline Thalos, a songstress and weaver, had been quite popular for her charms, but claims that she and her husband raised "savages" made her voice less and less in demand.
Soon, she had almost no clients. Bars that once advertised her proudly—"The Velvet Songstress: Tonight! Bring your own wine!"—stopped hiring her. Her career plummeted over mere rumours.
Charles frowned. Something about this story felt wrong. Even in his world, rumours like these weren't usually enough to destroy someone entirely. Were things really so different here?
His father, however, was purely outraged.
The man grew more impatient with people; the slightest offence would make him furious. His career as a hunter had already worn him thin—the fields outside the city were mentally taxing, but full of beasts needed by the meat industry.
That new attitude made him behave like his son: people would provoke him, and he would snap.
He was eventually recommended for retirement by his friends, which he accepted. Still, the feeling that something didn't add up plagued Charles's mind.
It felt forced—like being told he should feel a certain way. And yet, he managed to push that sensation aside.
No matter how you look at it, this doesn't make sense in a fair justice system. I guess everyone's corrupt around here… Thank the gods I didn't try to seek help!
He nodded with pride at that mental statement.
At last, Charles's eyes fell upon the door leading to Erwin's room. He didn't feel fatigued, but it was far later than Erwin's body was used to. It was 4 a.m.
He turned the doorknob gently, revealing a proper mess of a room. Items were placed randomly to clear space for more important furniture.
A whole shelf of worn books stood in the far corner. Beside it sat a table angled for arts and crafts, with a shelf above it filled with ink, pens, and stacks of paper.
Another table was set beside it—this one holding a typewriter.
A typewriter? Those were expensive… Ah, the job must have provided, hopefully, since the family can't afford luxuries.
Then came a familiar cough behind him.
Elira stood there, the veins on her forehead visible, her brows furrowed.
He immediately jumped aside, cold sweat washing over him.
"What's up with you tonight…"
She muttered this coldly as she walked past him and headed left. Two doors sat on either side of Erwin's room.
The left led to Elira's room—the right to their parents.
Well, so much for privacy, I guess…
Elira nearly slammed her door shut, but settled for shoving it closed hard enough to shake the room.
That was when he noticed a large leather-bound book slipping from the bookshelf—it was about to fall. Charles rushed forward, afraid the noise would wake everyone.
The book slipped.
Charles's hand caught the book just before it hit the floor. He exhaled in pure relief. This was Charles's own reflex this time, the childhood fear of waking parents in the middle of the night and getting grounded.