Two months later, I was a different person.


    I didn''t look like a sack of bones, and I had decent clothes—fancy clothes—to wear. My hair had grown to my shoulders, golden and soft like wheat in bloom, and Victor—I called him by his name now, as he requested—had decided I wouldn''t cut it because it was the most beautiful hair he''d ever seen.


    "Gilded strands, as if kissed by the sun and woven from light," he said. I could never understand why it was so special to him.


    Margaret, the lovely maiden, enjoyed brushing it and always kept it tidy. She said she would''ve wanted to be as pretty, and despite my being a boy, she said I had a prettier face than any girl she''d seen. I couldn''t understand the nature of her praise and never really tried to. Her warmth was enough, and I knew the honesty in her words, so I let myself enjoy something I''d never had. All my ears had ever heard was painful disappointment, disgust, and fear.


    The house seemed labyrinthine and overwhelming, pouring darkness into every corner, though grandiosity still spoke for every life that passed through it. The vaulted ceilings, cathedral-high, held chandeliers that broke the shadows with their gilt flames but seemed to threaten to fall on me. They engulfed me and contrasted harshly with that tiny chest I confess I missed it then. Bronze candelabras stood on marble stands alongside porcelain vases, adorned with the mournful beauty of age and decay, dedicated to old portraits of deceased Casta?eda family members.


    Because of it, my assigned room felt safer, and I wouldn''t leave it at first. It was bigger than any place I''d spent the night in before, yet tight enough to feel comfortable again. I was bewildered by all that outer immensity. The luxuries in there contrasted even with the rest of the house, which seemed empty and ordinary by comparison. Toys covered every surface, from different parts of the world, as Victor explained—some big and imposing like the dollhouse, others coated in gold like the little soldiers or the tea set. My bed had silk sheets that matched the curtains, and the carpets were said to be magical. I had my own desk and a dresser I couldn''t explore in a day. Every piece of wood was precious, every object carefully made, ornamented with unique details in a way that I could only sense love flooding them—despite love being something unknown to me.


    Regardless of Victor''s efforts to erase my traumas and make me talk, I wasn''t ready yet, so I stayed silent and thoughtful for quite a while. Obedient and respectful, I nodded at every demand made of me and responded with the same warmth and care I was offered in that house. Though I confess now, deep inside, I had a fear I couldn''t shake—a fear I didn''t know where it came from or where it would go.


    Victor was a fine person, and so was Margaret. They took good care of me and spoiled me endlessly. But there were things about me—dark things—they couldn''t understand. Neither did I. Maybe because I was free for the first time, I was terrified that such darkness would unleash and destroy what I''d been given.


    All my life, I''d suffered terrible nightmares I could never remember after waking. All I carried was the horror and inexplicable fear as an aftertaste. Those nightmares didn''t stay with my mother the day she left me at Casta?eda''s—they still tormented me each night against my will, and in them lay my inability to be a normal child.


    If the nights were hideous and I''d wake up sweating and bruised for reasons I didn''t know, the days were short and full of adventures—or so I called them in my mind. I lived in a house where I could do whatever I pleased, a house with rooms I never opened and secrets I never had time to dig out. The library, for instance, was one of those places of undeniable beauty that, like my room, contrasted with everything else—a cathedral of books with towering shelves that reached the ceiling, filled with leather-bound tomes in every forgotten language. At its heart stood a mahogany desk where Victor spent hours, surrounded by the quiet weight of his knowledge and the white fume of his cigarettes. That mix of dusty wood, yellowed paper sheets, and tobacco became my favorite scent, and there wasn''t a day I didn''t cherish it.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Yet traveling among the large corridors and the garden or finding strange objects forgotten around the house wasn''t the best thing. Victor was.


    He''d always be by my side and hold my hand to show me a new world to explore. He was kind and eloquent, and his intellect mesmerized me—someone who''d never met anyone like him. I believe he could''ve mesmerized anyone. He had a talent for captivating me with his words—the way he told me stories I''d never heard, the way he showed me a world I hadn''t known all those years. I learned to read because he let me spend whole days in his gigantic library, and for the first time, I held keys to worlds I didn''t know existed. He read a few books to me, and as soon as he realized I could read on my own, he let me wander and pick those universes to sink into.


    He seemed to enjoy having me around as he sat at his desk for hours, writing, reading, and thinking aloud. I read everything from history and art books to poetry and fiction. Victor spent most of his time in that library and talked to me as if I were his confidant, hoping I''d never spill those secrets he carelessly tossed my way. Maybe he just knew I wouldn''t. He proved I didn''t need to talk when I was with him because he could almost read my mind. Maybe that''s why I stopped fearing words so much.


    During that time, I saw myself as the keeper of his treasured secrets, and he treated me that way in a sense. He''d give me anything I hinted at liking or needing, and his attention was something I treasured enough to find ways to please him myself, to give back as much as I could from my insignificant place. If I could see him smile after I did something he approved of, I was immensely happy. I grew so attached to him in such a short time that I followed him almost everywhere he went, as long as he stayed in the house. Whenever I couldn''t find him, I''d panic—silently—at the fear of never seeing him again.


    I''d get up from my bed at the exact time each morning I knew he did, recognizing his steps and the sounds they made as he got changed and went down the stairs. I knew when and where to catch him. I learned his habits and quirks because I watched him even when he thought I wasn''t paying attention. He''d always comb his dark hair neatly, never letting anyone but himself help him dress—something I only realized was unusual much later. His frock was always dark red or black, sometimes a forest green that made his eyes shimmer brighter. His favorite waistcoat, one of intricate yet discreet embroidery, had belonged to his father, he said, though it looked new.


    When I turned nine—eight months after arriving at Casta?eda Manor—Victor let me into a locked room I didn''t even know existed. "Play it," he said, pointing to a black pianoforte that lay dusty in the center of the widest room I''d ever seen, lit by the ghastly light seeping through the clouds outside. I had no idea what to do with it. I''d never seen or touched the instrument before, only heard it on old records he played downstairs each night at dinner and after, into the night. "Play it," he insisted, and I didn''t know why. I approached the thing—gigantic and imposing—heart racing, hesitant, like it was a test I couldn''t fail. My hands rested on the keys, exploring each note carefully. Then I realized I had to use both hands and press more than one key at a time. Without a clue what I was doing, I tried to play my clumsy version of a piece Victor listened to every day, over and over until he fell asleep in his armchair in the library. It took me a while to find the right keys, and my tempo was too slow. After sunset, when the room drowned in dark, I remembered time existed and stopped my disastrous attempt. I looked at him, still by my side. His eyes were full of tears, his expression one I couldn''t read.


    "I''m sorry..." I said, my feet echoing on the wooden floor as I ran away. That was the first time I ever spoke.


    I cried for hours, expecting to be punished or thrown out of this new life I''d been given and secretly treasured. But the next morning, to my surprise, a tutor greeted me—a man meant to teach me how to play the piano properly.