The boat cut through the fog like a knife through old linen, each stroke of the oars stirring the thick, briny air that clung to us as tightly as our fears. I leaned forward, peering ahead into the endless grey that wrapped around the Isle of Anvara, hoping to catch the first glimpse of our new home. The mist was dense, almost alive, swirling in languid patterns that whispered of things long forgotten, things better left undisturbed.
Mother sat rigid at the stern, her eyes fixed on the distant outline of the island, her knuckles white as she gripped the sides of the boat. I couldn't see her face from where I sat, but I knew it well enough to imagine the deep furrows etched into her brow, the tightness of her lips pressed into a line of resolve. She hadn’t spoken much during our journey, her voice swallowed by the weight of whatever thoughts occupied her mind.
“Almost there,” she murmured finally, more to herself than to us.
Faith, seated beside me, nodded silently, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her head was bowed slightly, eyes downcast, as if in silent prayer or deep reflection. My sister was always like that—quiet, obedient, and perfectly composed. It was as if she was made of glass, fragile and reflective, catching and holding onto the faintest glimmers of light in the otherwise bleak surroundings. She hadn’t smiled once since we left the mainland, and I wondered if she, too, felt the oppressive weight of our destination.
Then there was Grace. She sat across from me, her body hunched, her arms wrapped around herself as though trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. Her hair fell in messy tangles over her face, and her clothes, always slightly askew, looked as though they had been hastily thrown on in the dark. Grace was an anomaly, always out of step, always just a beat behind the rhythm that the rest of us seemed to follow. Even now, she fidgeted, her foot tapping nervously against the boat’s wooden floor, the sound of it setting my teeth on edge.
“Stop that,” Mother snapped suddenly, her voice sharp in the silence. Grace flinched, immediately stilling her restless leg, her eyes darting to the floor. Mother’s gaze softened slightly, but only just. “We need to be quiet now. The island… it requires respect.”
I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I nodded along with Faith, instinctively following suit. Grace hesitated, then nodded too, though her eyes flickered with something unreadable—fear, perhaps, or something darker.
The island emerged from the fog slowly, as if it was reluctant to reveal itself. Jagged rocks lined the shore, and behind them, the dark silhouette of our ancestral home loomed, its edges blurred by the mist. The house was large, much larger than I had imagined, with tall, narrow windows that seemed to peer out like watchful eyes. The roof was steep and crooked in places, and the walls were a patchwork of aged wood and crumbling stone, overgrown with ivy and moss. It looked like a place that had been forgotten by time, left to decay in solitude.
But to me, it was a sanctuary.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, more to myself than to anyone else. And in a way, it was. The house had a kind of forlorn beauty, like an old, abandoned cathedral, echoing with the prayers of those long departed. I felt drawn to it, as though it was calling out to me, welcoming me with open arms.
“Is it?” Faith’s voice was soft, uncertain. She glanced at me, her brow furrowed. “It feels… cold.”
“Everything feels cold here,” Grace mumbled under her breath. I wasn’t sure if she meant to say it out loud, but the words hung in the air between us, unanswered.
Mother said nothing, her eyes still fixed on the house as we docked the boat. She was the first to step onto the rocky shore, her movements quick and deliberate as she began to unload our belongings. Faith followed, then me, and finally, Grace, who stumbled slightly as she stepped onto the rocks, catching herself just before she fell.
“Careful, Grace,” I said, though my tone was more exasperated than concerned. Grace mumbled an apology, her face flushing with embarrassment. She had always been like that—awkward, graceless, and constantly apologizing for it.
We made our way up the narrow path to the house, our footsteps crunching on the gravel. The closer we got, the more imposing the house became, its dark windows staring down at us with a kind of grim indifference. The front door was tall and heavy, made of dark wood that had splintered and warped with age. It groaned as Mother pushed it open, the sound echoing through the empty halls beyond.
The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and the scent of damp wood. The furniture was old, covered in sheets that billowed slightly as we passed by, like ghosts stirred from their slumber. The floors creaked beneath our feet, and every sound seemed amplified in the stillness.
“Welcome home,” Mother said, though her voice lacked warmth. She turned to us, her eyes hard. “This place… it will keep us safe. But only if we respect it. There are rules here, rules that must be followed.”
Faith nodded immediately, her expression serious. Grace glanced around nervously, biting her lip, while I forced a smile, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that had settled in my chest.
“Of course, Mother,” I said. “We’ll follow the rules.”
But even as I said it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this house, this island, had rules of its own—rules that we had yet to understand.
As we settled in that first day, unpacking our belongings and exploring the rooms, I tried to hold onto my initial sense of optimism. I told myself that this was a new beginning, a chance to start over, away from whatever it was that had driven Mother to bring us here. But as the day wore on and the shadows in the house grew longer, I found myself staring out of the tall, narrow windows, watching as the fog crept closer, wrapping the island in its cold embrace.
And for the first time, I felt a flicker of doubt.
Perhaps this place wasn’t a sanctuary after all.
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