The horse's hooves beat the ground with a muffled rhythm. Annabelle, astride, kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, her features closed. Behind her, Georges and Nicolas walked in silence, their boots sinking into the thick mud of the forest path.
"We're not gonna get very far like this," Georges grumbled after a while.
"You're not made for walking, that's for sure," Nicolas replied with a half-smile.
"I'm not made for walking this much after nearly dying. There's a difference."
They stopped, casting a glance at Annabelle's still silhouette. She said nothing. Not a word since she had mounted.
"She's not doing well," Nicolas whispered.
"Obviously! Have you seen our faces? We all look like we spent the night in a tomb."
"Well… we kind of did, didn't we?"
A heavy silence settled. Then Georges spoke again:
"We can't go home. Not like this. Not on foot."
"Our town's too far anyway. Don't you remember? It took us a full week to get here."
"A week… But we're what, five, six hours from the village now?"
"If we don't drag our feet. And if we don't run into another nightmare."
Georges grimaced. He looked at the horse, then the forest, and finally at his brother.
"Do we turn back?"
"To her house?"
"It's still her home. And we've got the papers. All of them."
He patted the worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
"The mayor gave them to us," he said. "The deed, the guardianship, everything."
They exchanged a glance.
"So it's decided?" said Nicolas.
"We're going to her place," Georges confirmed. "We'll hole up, get some rest, and then… we'll see."
"And the mastiffs?"
"They're following."
As if on cue, the two beasts raised their heads and began walking, two silent black shadows trailing behind them.Nicolas sighed.
"I hope she's not too traumatized."
Georges didn't answer. He walked toward the horse and gently tapped Annabelle's leg.
"We're going home, Annabelle. Your home."
She didn't reply but gripped the reins tighter. The horse started moving.
✧✧✧
They hadn't spoken a word since leaving the main path.
Not a single word. Only the sounds of the forest, the crack of branches under boots, the horse's breathing—and behind them, the heavier, deeper breaths of the mastiffs. Two thick shadows following at a slow but steady pace. Invisible at first glance, but impossible to ignore.
"We're not going through the village, right?" Georges finally said, voice rough.
"You want to explain this to the baker?" Nicolas shot back, jerking his thumb at the beasts behind them.
"Nope."
Silence.
"No one can see them," Nicolas said. "No one would believe us, and everyone would panic."
Georges nodded. His face looked drawn, dark circles carved into it like wounds.
"Have you seen the time?" he muttered. "Is it still morning? Or already afternoon?"
"I don't even know what day it is anymore."
They walked like automatons. The ground was dry in some places, muddy in others. The horse stumbled once, but Annabelle held it steady without a word. She stayed upright. Silent. Eyes fixed ahead as if she'd fall apart if she looked elsewhere.
Nicolas watched her from the corner of his eye.
"She's strong."
"Too strong," Georges whispered. "She's gonna break all at once, and that's no good. We're all built like that."
"Maybe. But not yet."
They kept walking.
The hours stretched like days.
The sun barely pierced through the branches, pale and high. Then it began to dip, turning the sky a bluish gray. The birds stopped singing. The trees closed in. And finally, after one last climb, the house appeared—nestled against the hillside, half-hidden by trees.
Annabelle stopped the horse.
"This is it," she whispered.
She dismounted silently, her legs trembling. The two men followed, dazed. Even the mastiffs slowed their pace, sniffing the air with curiosity.
The door creaked open. The air inside smelled of dust, wood, and something indefinable—a blend of memories, absence, and forgotten warmth.
Annabelle placed a hand on the doorframe.
"Come in."
She climbed the wooden stairs, which creaked under each step, and opened the door at the end of the hallway. The bedroom. Her parents'.
A simple, clean room bathed in soft light. The bed, large and still made, as if waiting. An old dresser. Two portraits on the walls.
"You can… sleep here," she said without looking at them.
Georges collapsed onto the bed without even removing his boots. Nicolas sat on the edge, elbows on his knees, head in hands.
"I've never been this exhausted in my life," he murmured.
"Same," Georges replied, already half-asleep.
Annabelle stood for a moment, arms wrapped around herself. Then she left the room without a word and went to her own.
She closed the door. Took off her shoes. Then slid under the covers.
The familiar smell of the fabric—dust, lavender, something undefinable—hit her like a wave. She closed her eyes. And her whole body released at once. Sleep swallowed her almost instantly.
Outside, the mastiffs had laid down in front of the house, their sides rising and falling slowly. Their half-closed eyes glowed faintly in the shadows.
✧✧✧
Morning settled over the house like a cotton veil. Pale light filtered through the lace curtains, brushing across furniture covered in dust and memories. Steaming liquid sat in mugs on the table, but none of the three really drank.
Annabelle held a cup in her hands, untouched. Her gaze was unfocused, as if staring through time.
"Good thing we've got the papers," Nicolas said, trying to break the silence.
"That's one thing sorted."
That sentence. Simple. Harmless. But it exploded in Annabelle's mind like a thunderclap.
"The papers…" she repeated. "The notary…"
She abruptly raised her head, brows furrowed.
"We were supposed to meet a notary. That's what my father wrote. Not the mayor."
Georges stiffened.
"The notary? Are you sure?"
"Yes. I don't know who exactly, but that's also what the priest said."
The two uncles exchanged a worried look.
Georges stood, went to the leather trunk, and pulled out the neatly arranged bundle of documents. He spread them out on the table, running a finger over them.
"They look fine. Names, dates… The deed, the guardianship letter… It's all here."
"Except… the seal," Nicolas said, leaning in. "Look. There's the mayor's signature, but no notarial stamp."
"That's not good?" Annabelle asked, detached.
"Well… it might be okay. The mayor has authority, but for legal guardianship changes and a will's activation, a notary's seal is required. It's the law. Without it, someone could contest the papers. Or claim it's all fake. Plus, we'll need it to enroll you in school once we're back in Montverdier."
A tense silence fell over the room.
Annabelle pushed back her chair.
"I'm not going back to the village. Not now. Not after all this. And definitely not to chase after a notary we've never seen."
She left the room with brisk steps. Her two uncles watched her disappear, not daring to follow.
A few minutes later, she returned with a small wooden box in her hands. She opened it slowly, revealing a finely engraved metal object: her father's personal seal, bearing his initials and the emblem of their lineage.
"He used this for his contracts. He always said what mattered most was having an official stamp."
She sat down, took the documents, and pressed the seal down with a firm hand. The metal sank into the warm wax she'd melted with a candle, imprinting the family crest in relief.
"There. Now it's done."
Georges stared at her, unsure what to say.
"That's… are you sure it'll be enough?"
"In theory," she hesitated before replying. Georges and Nicolas exchanged a silent glance.
She stood still for a moment, the pail suspended in midair, her shoulders weighed down by accumulated fatigue. Then, without a word, she pushed back the chair, the wood creaking against the floorboards, and rose to her feet. One step after another, she crossed the empty kitchen, brushing her fingers along the edge of the table.
The sky was slowly opening on the horizon. A pale light filtered through the window, washing the contours of the room in an almost milky blue. She stopped there, placing her hands on the wooden frame, still warm from the house's lingering heat. Outside, the grass was damp, beaded with dew. And lying there, in the quiet of morning, the two mastiffs. Motionless. A deep breath gently lifted their flanks, peaceful, almost in sync. The horse, tied to a tree, grazed a little farther away.
She watched them without moving. There was no more fear. No more doubt. Only that rhythm. Slow, steady. Not hers. Not quite. Something beneath it, deeper, older. Like an echo she had heard before, without wanting to listen.
A drum. Two. Muffled and resonant. Not in the air—in her chest. In her wrists. In her throat.
She closed her eyes. And the world slowly faded around her. Only the beat remained. A quiet, hypnotic cadence that wrapped around her without violence, like a warm blanket laid on cold shoulders.
They were there. So was she.
When she opened her eyes, the mastiffs had turned their heads toward her. No sudden movement. No tension. Only those dark gazes, locked onto hers. She didn't look away. A shiver ran up her spine—not of fear, but of certainty.
They would be hers.