₦airaland Forum

Part Thirty Four – The Elton Banquet

Raleigh, never one to turn down free delicacies, piled small biscuits and sugared buns onto his plate. “An opportunity of a lifetime,” he muttered, licking crumbs from his moustache.

Albert, however, kept his hands folded neatly on the table, content to wait and watch.

The room itself reeked of excess. Pink and cream draperies cascaded from the ceiling like layers of cake icing, trimmed in gold tassels.

The air was sweet with honey and cinnamon, almost cloying, and the servants — boys and girls so perfect they seemed sculpted rather than born — moved in strict patterns, their eyes vacant, their steps measured like dancers in some grotesque ballet.

Then came the masters of the house. Lord Vaughan Elton entered first, his outfit layered absurdly: a velvet coat embroidered with tiny moons, silk gloves, and shoes so polished they reflected the ceiling lights. Beside him floated Lady Amelia Elton, pale as ivory, her gown of rose-gold satin shimmering as though woven from moonlight. She did not walk so much as glide, her eyes locking on Albert. The weight of her stare made his throat dry, as if she saw through him, probing for weakness.

“Detectives,” Vaughan greeted, his voice buttery and false. “You honor our table.” He clapped twice. A servant appeared instantly with a steaming teapot. “A special brew today, Master Albert. The Silver Petal Infusion — said to calm restless spirits.”

Albert raised a hand politely. “No, thank you. I prefer—”

Amelia interrupted, her lips curling into the faintest smile. “Nonsense, It is not offered as a choice.” She nodded, and one of the flawless servant girls leaned close, pressing a porcelain cup into Albert’s hand with fingers that lingered too long. The tea was pale pink, almost glowing, perfumed with something floral and metallic.

Albert hesitated. Raleigh, already stuffing his mouth with sugared almonds, gave him a nudge and whispered, “Just drink it,They’ll take offense.”

So Albert lifted the cup, touched it to his lips — and immediately sputtered, choking as the taste hit him. It was wrong, sharp and metallic, like rust and perfume mixed together. He spat it back into the cup, coughing violently.

The effect was instant. Amelia’s eyes widened as though he had just committed murder. Her pale hands trembled, then with a sudden shriek she seized the teapot and hurled it across the floor. It shattered, porcelain shards skittering, the liquid steaming as it spread.

The servants froze — then dropped to their knees all at once. Like animals, they pressed their faces to the floor and began licking the spilt tea, tongues dragging across the marble in long, synchronized strokes. The sound was hideous: wet slurps echoing in the cavernous room.

Albert pushed back in his chair, horrified. “What the devil—?”

Raleigh’s mouth hung open, a half-chewed bun falling to his plate. “Sweet God…”

Amelia rose, her voice trembling but sharp. “He spat it out. He spat out the offering.”

Vaughan Elton’s face broke into a thin, satisfied smile. He did not move to stop the spectacle. Instead, he tapped his fingers against the table and cleared his throat with theatrical gravity.

Instantly, every servant froze mid-lick. They rose in perfect unison, their mouths smeared pink with tea, their eyes glassy. Without a word, they gathered the broken porcelain pieces, swept the crumbs, and even plucked the food from Raleigh’s very fingers, retreating with eerie grace. Within moments, the table was bare — stripped clean of every plate, cup, and crumb.

Silence fell. Only Vaughan’s smug voice lingered:

“Now,” he said smoothly, his eyes gleaming as though he had orchestrated the entire grotesque performance, “we may begin.”

Albert sat rigid, pulse racing, still tasting the metallic tang on his tongue. Raleigh swallowed hard, his appetite gone, his earlier enthusiasm curdling into dread.

Part Thirty Three – The Eltons’ Mansion

Detectives Raleigh and Albert arrived at the gates of Vaughan Elton’s estate, a sprawling manse of cream-stone walls trimmed in pink marble, its windows draped with long curtains embroidered in gold thread. Even before entering, they could hear the rhythmic sound of shoes on stone, the rehearsed march of servants moving in flawless order.

The Eltons had been here for centuries — one of the oldest council families in Iron Clover — their fortune originally baked, quite literally, in bread. Generations ago through three wars, the Elton patriarch had been the wealthiest flour and sugar merchant in the city. He supplied half the council with cakes for their festivals, biscuits for their tables, sweetmeats for their children.

Where others trafficked in steel, blood, or arcane dealings, the Eltons trafficked in sweetness. It was said a single loaf stamped with the Elton crest could open doors at court that even a purse of silver could not.

But Vaughan Elton was not content with bread. He had grown up one of eight brothers, a loud, bustling household of bakers and merchants. He broke from them, choosing politics over ovens, climbing council ranks not by flour but by feasts. Parties became his weapon: grand, excessive gatherings where alliances were baked as carefully as his father’s cakes. And in that, he excelled.

His wife, Amelia Elton, was stranger still. A high-born woman from a family renowned for their mastery of fashion and their brewing of fertility draughts, she had always walked the line between society and the mystic. Amelia was — and still was — a priestess of the old ways, a devout follower of the moon goddess Ansuviah, whose cult whispered of blood arcane rites.

No evidence of these practices had ever been found, but the rumors never faded. They clung to her like perfume.

Together, Vaughan and Amelia were an oddity among the council elite: a man of jovial flour and public festivals, a woman of silken veils and moonlit prayers. Odd, but powerful. Politically they ranked just behind Lady Morgan Lulough and the Madeiyas.

And they had influence in places no others could touch — among the common folk who ate their breads, among the women who drank Amelia’s potions, and among the nobility who depended on their endless banquets.

The Elton crest reflected this duality: a golden crescent moon cradling a loaf of bread, stamped in cream and pink enamel. Their colors — cream, pink, and gold — seemed soft, almost frivolous, until seen in excess. In their halls, those colors became overwhelming, a world of sugared hues hiding something sharp beneath.

The detectives were led through a wide marble corridor by a retinue of near-perfect boys and girls, youthful servants with flawless skin, styled hair, and movements so synchronized they seemed choreographed. There were hundreds of them — too many for mere household staff. Some whispered it was Vaughan’s fetish, others that it was Amelia’s ritual devotion, surrounding herself with youth as votive offerings to Ansuviah. None dared ask aloud.

They were brought into the banquet hall. Before them stretched a long table heavy with food — breads of every shape, biscuits stacked in towers, scones glistening with cream, honey jars shining under lantern light, and endless pots of steaming tea. The aroma was so rich it pressed against the air, dizzying in its sweetness.

One of the servants smiled politely, his tone rehearsed:
"Lord and Lady Amelia Elton will be with you shortly.”

Part Thirty Two – A Dangerous Choice

As Heller turned to leave, he paused. His old instincts warred with his loyalty, but the words came nonetheless. “Master Jonathan,” he said gently, “perhaps… you should see a doctor. For your memory, it should help the general public relax a bit more.”

Jonathan’s head lifted, sharp, almost startled. He understood instantly.

A doctor meant more than treatment. It meant Cooperation. The police would seize on it, They might even believe he was ready to help uncover what had happened to his mother and brother.

His lips curved faintly, a smile not of humor but of acknowledgment. “Yes,” he said after a moment, voice calm, rehearsed. “A doctor. Perhaps you are right.”

It was a game of appearances now.

Heller’s weathered face softened, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. He inclined his head. “Good. It eases my heart to hear it.”

Part Thirty One – Coral Street Warehouse

Heller turned from the heavy door, the strange key still warm in his palm, only to find Jonathan standing in the hallway.

The boy looked pale, his hair untidy, eyes hollow from another restless night. His hands clutched the folds of his robe, and he breathed as though he’d run a mile.

“Who was it?” Jonathan asked quickly, voice low, guarded.

Heller tilted his head. “Not the police, Master Jonathan.”

Jonathan exhaled shakily, almost collapsing against the doorframe. “For a moment I thought… Albert.” He swallowed. “He keeps circling. Every word he says feels like a trap. He thinks I know more than I do.”

Heller studied him, the lad’s youth still there beneath the weight of grief. He stepped closer, softening his voice. “You mustn’t let his questions undo you. The young detective is sharp, yes, but suspicion without proof is only smoke.”

Jonathan’s eyes flicked to the butler’s hand. “What’s that?”

Heller held out the key. The iron teeth glinted faintly in the pale light. “It was delivered just now. A message of sorts. It bears your father’s sigil.”

Jonathan took it gingerly, as though it might burn him. The grooves of the Hanns crest were cold under his thumb.

“A warehouse,” Heller said quietly. “One of your father’s properties, I’d wager. Likely acquired in recent months, down coral street.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. Coral Street. Humphrey’s words returned to him: his father, spotted in that district, sipping tea with a stranger in a purple hat.

He clenched the key in his fist. “Coral Street,” he whispered.

A silence fell, heavy as stone. Jonathan slipped the key into his robe and drew himself up. “Prepare warm water for a bath, Heller. I need to think.” His voice steadied, though the shadows under his eyes betrayed his unrest.

“As you wish,” the butler replied, bowing with the grace of a man who knew when not to press.

We all need to hear this.

Sometimes, we just need to say sorry to ourselves.

“THIS APOLOGY CALLED ME”

(A Letter from Your Body to You)




HEART

I beat for those who never stayed.
I loved without logic, forgave without memory,
bled for promises written on smoke and sealed with lies.

I should have known that not every “forever”
is meant to outlive the night.

Forgive me — I mistook loneliness for love.

But don’t silence me now.
Don’t punish me for feeling.
Don’t grow tired of my beating.

Do you remember how I first fluttered
when you laughed as a child?
When joy was a song you didn’t yet know the name of?
Let me feel that again.

Let me keep beating, even if only for you.
I have broken, yes — but even broken hearts still keep time.
And that rhythm, that stubborn drum,
means there is something still worth saving.




HANDS

We held on when we should have let go.
We begged when pride should have been our bread.
We built altars for those who never prayed for us.

We’ve stolen comfort, struck walls,
and fed on the crumbs of attention.
We are guilty — yes.

But do you remember?
When we first reached out for balance,
how we learned to crawl, to hold, to touch the world?
How we clapped when you took your first steps —
pure, unafraid, certain that life was yours to grasp?

Don’t tie us in surrender.
Let us fight again, not for survival —
but for dignity.

Let us build again — not prisons of regret,
but bridges back to yourself.




EYES

We stared too long at illusions
until they grew real.
We chased smiles painted in deceit.
We forgot your reflection
while memorizing their absence.

Now even beauty hides when we blink.
But we remember — the first time you saw rainbows on puddles,
the light that danced through your window,
the look of wonder when you discovered color.

If you open us once more,
we’ll not look for heaven —
we’ll look for truth.

We can still see good things.
They haven’t disappeared; they’ve just gone out of focus.
Help us find them again.




LIPS

We kissed pain and called it passion.
We said “yes” because “no” felt lonely.
We lied to make others comfortable,
and died in every silence that followed.

We mocked our own prayers,
swallowed words that could have saved us.
Forgive us —

but give us one last sentence to speak right:
“I deserve to live.”

We once laughed freely, remember?
When the world was small but safe,
when even nonsense tasted like music.
Let us speak that way again.

Let us tell jokes again.
Let us say “I love you” to the mirror
without choking on doubt.

We can speak healing if you let us.




LEGS

We wandered into rooms that emptied us.
We ran after those who never looked back.
We stood too long in places that hurt.
We kneeled for validation,
and trembled under shame.

But we also remember running through fields,
scraping knees and rising again,
chasing dreams we didn’t yet know were fragile.

Yet, even broken, we can still move.
Don’t bury us beneath guilt.

We can still walk you out of this darkness —
one stubborn step at a time.

We have carried your victories before.
Let us carry you once more — this time,
toward peace, not pain.




BRAIN

I am the worst of them all.
I built cages from memories
and called them logic.
I made you doubt yourself,
fed your nightmares,
turned healing into guilt.

But I remember when curiosity
was your superpower —
when you asked why the stars twinkled,
why ants never got tired,
why life was a puzzle you loved solving.

Now I fill that same mind with fear.
I have sinned against you with thoughts too heavy to lift.

But I swear — I can learn peace.
I can be gentle again.
I can dream again.

Let me rewrite the story —
this time without blood in the ink.

Let me tell a version where you survive.



EARS

We heard what we wanted,
ignored what we needed.

We swallowed sweet poison,
believed flattery over truth.

We tuned in to chaos
and called it company.

We let the noise drown your own voice,
the one that once sang to birds
and whispered secrets to the wind.

We remember when you first heard laughter —
your mother’s, your friend’s, your own —
and how sound itself felt like a warm embrace.

Let us listen again.
We’ll search for the sound of your own voice —
the one that never lied.

We promise to hear not the screams of the world,
but the quiet hum of hope
that still trembles beneath your ribs.




SKIN

We’ve carried fingerprints like curses,
scars like certificates of pain.

We remember every touch —
even the ones we begged to forget.

We’ve been branded, bruised,
called dirty for surviving.

But we also remember sunlight —
the first warmth you ever knew,
the joy of rain sliding down your arms,
the tickle of wind against your face.

Don’t peel us away.
Don’t hide us in long sleeves and shame.

Let us heal.
We can still shiver from laughter,
still bloom from kindness.

We can still feel sunlight —
and that, too, is holy.




SOUL

They think I left — but I never did.
I’ve just been hiding beneath the ruins,
waiting for you to look inward again.

I am the quiet that refuses to die.
I am the ache that still hopes.

You’ve buried me under heartbreak,
but I have roots deeper than grief.
You’ve tried to silence me,
but even silence echoes if it believes.

Remember when you dreamed without reason?
When you wanted to fly, to sing, to be endless?
That was me — still whispering,
still believing that you are more than your wounds.

Don’t trade eternity for a single wound.
You are not your mistakes.
You are the universe trying again.

We can rise again,
not perfect — but alive.



THE BODY SPEAKS AS ONE

We are the evidence of every battle survived.
We’ve cracked, burned, starved, screamed —
but we’re still here.

Don’t end us for the sins of others.

We remember when life was simple —
when the floor was your playground,
when falling was just another way to learn balance,
when pain healed in hours, not years.

We’ve watched you grow, love, fail, and rise.
We’ve seen the nights you cried yourself empty,
and the mornings you still got up anyway.

That — is strength.

We failed you, yes.
But failing is part of it.
Even broken instruments can still make music.

So before you give up,
let us remind you of everything you’ve survived —
and everyone you still are.

Let us carry you again —
not away from pain,
but through it.

We can’t promise tomorrow will be gentle,
but we can promise —
you won’t face it alone.

Because we — your body, your memories, your breath, your soul —
are still here.

Still waiting.
Still believing.
Still alive.

Part Thirty – The Stranger with the Key

The echo of a knock broke the stillness. Slow, hesitant, yet insistent.

Heller frowned, setting aside his duster. Few dared approach the Hanns estate unannounced. He made his way to the grand door, pulling it open to find a scrawny, middle-aged man, his coat threadbare, his beard unkempt. The man’s eyes darted about nervously, like a rat expecting a trap.

“Morning, sir,” the stranger rasped, clutching something in his dirt-streaked hand. “I was told to bring this. A man gave it to me four weeks back, said if no one claimed it, I was to bring it here.”

He opened his palm. Resting there was a key — old, iron-forged, heavy. At first glance it seemed ordinary, until Heller saw the base: etched into the metal, the unmistakable sigil of Raymond Hanns, two lions.

A chill spread through Heller’s chest. His master’s hand was in this.

“I don’t know the man’s name,” the vagrant continued, “only that he said I’d be paid for my trouble. Twelve silver coins. Not a coin less.” He held out his hand expectantly.

The precision of the demand struck Heller at once. Raymond Hanns had always been a man of detail, down to the last fraction. It could be no coincidence. Wordlessly, Heller fetched the exact amount, counting out the silvers into the man’s grimy palm.

The stranger’s eyes widened, astonished at his own good fortune. “By the gods,” he muttered, half laughing, half cursing. “Should’ve asked for more, eh? That man… cleverer than he looked.”

Heller closed the door with a quiet firmness, shutting out the man’s mutterings. He turned the key over in his hand, the sigil catching the dawn’s light. A message. A secret. Perhaps a burden.

His thoughts darkened. Whatever this key unlocked, Raymond Hanns had meant for Jonathan to inherit it. And Heller would see to it that the boy did.

Part Twenty Nine – Morning at the Hanns Mansion

The first light of dawn crept over the Hanns estate, pale and reluctant, casting long bars of gray through the tall windows. Inside, Heller moved with the measured rhythm of habit. The old butler carried his cloth and feather duster as if they were ceremonial instruments, gliding from room to room with quiet reverence.

He polished the banisters, adjusted the drapes, straightened chairs that had never been moved. The mansion demanded order, even if its heart was rotting from within.

When he reached the west hall, his step faltered. On the polished oak floor lay the Wichester revolver —. The weapon sat awkwardly in the light, as though ashamed of what it had failed to do.


He withdrew the bullets, wiped the steel with his cloth until it gleamed, then slid the revolver back into its proper case as though returning a sacred relic. Another attempt thwarted. Another night survived.

But how many more? Heller’s gaze lingered on the revolver a beat longer before he turned away, the silence of the mansion pressing in on his shoulders.

Part Twenty Eight – Speculations in the Coach

The coach wheels clattered over cobblestones, muffled by the morning fog that clung to the streets. Inside, Raleigh and Albert sat opposite one another, the Elton seal resting on the seat between them like a weight neither wanted to touch first.


Albert frowned. “So Elton doesn’t want to help us. He wants to use us.”

“Aye,” Raleigh replied, his tone even. “Use, test, or trap — we’ll find out soon enough at least the tea and biscuits would be delicious,”

Albert hesitated, then leaned forward. “And Jonathan Hanns? What do you make of him?”

Raleigh’s gaze shifted, thoughtful. “The boy’s pretty ordinary, A true hanns, keeps his nose out of trouble, went through the college, top grades and all though there was just one incident,"

"An incident? What incident?" Albert asked.


"At seven years old, he disappeared. Out in the market with Heller — gone in the crowd, vanished. For two days, the whole city searched. Nothing. Then on the third dawn, he was found standing on the Hanns doorstep. Alone. Unharmed. Couldn’t say where he’d been, or who had him. The hanns hushed up the whole incident, too grateful to have the boy in one piece perhaps.” Raleigh continued.

Albert stilled, his tapping knee going quiet. “You’re telling me no one pressed further?”

“Whispers said it was a warning. A message from some council rival. But Raymond Hanns ordered it buried. No questions, no records. Case dropped.” Raleigh paused, voice lowering. “And the boy’s never spoken of it since.”

The coach swayed, the silence between them heavier than the fog outside. Albert’s young face was thoughtful now, the excitement tempered. “Then Jonathan Hanns isn’t as simple as he seems.”

Raleigh only nodded. “And that, lad, is exactly why we tread carefully.”

Part Twenty Seven – The Elton Invitation

The scrape of a boot at the door interrupted their thoughts. A messenger entered, a young boy, his red and gold coat, his hand clutching a folded letter sealed in crimson wax. The sigil impressed upon it — a hound beneath a crown — left no doubt who had sent it.

“Lord Elton,” Raleigh said under his breath, exchanging a glance with Albert.

The boy placed the letter carefully on the desk, bowed in the stiff, self-taught manner of street couriers, and left without a word. Albert broke the seal at once, eyes scanning the elegant script.

“It’s an invitation,” he said, almost disbelieving. “Tea at Lord Elton estate. He writes that… there are questions he thinks he may be open to speak about.”

Albert’s tone carried excitement, the energy of possibility. Raleigh, however, folded his arms, gaze narrowing at the parchment.

“Councilmen do nothing without reason, lad. If Elton opens his doors, it isn’t out of kindness. He wants something in return. Politics, most likely.”

Albert gave a half-smile. “Still, it’s more than we’ve got. At least he wants to talk. That’s something.”

Raleigh didn’t argue. He simply reached for his coat. “Something, aye. But not always the kind you want.”

They were just stepping out into the brisk morning when the sound of raised voices carried across the courtyard. Two fellow detectives, Clayton and William, were coming up the steps, guiding between them a ragged little girl. Her clothes hung loose, patched with rough thread, her hair matted, her cheeks pale from the cold.

Albert stopped, his brows knitting. “What’s this?”

Clayton adjusted his grip on the child’s shoulder, his expression weary. “Another disappearance. Pulled her in this morning. Her mother gone in the night, house door open, no trace left behind. She’s the only one left. Commissioner Webb isn’t stirring himself over it — says it’s no council matter.”

A silence hung for a moment. Raleigh’s jaw tightened. Albert, however, exhaled through his nose and gave a faint smirk — not mocking, but bitterly amused. “You might have the better case, then. At least disappearances leave a trail. All I’ve got is a ballroom of liars and silence.”

Clayton gave him a wry look, not sure if it was encouragement or envy. William just shook his head and led the girl inside.

Raleigh chuckled softly at Albert’s remark, the sound more warm than chastising. “Don’t lose that spirit, lad. You’ll need it before we’re through.”

And with that, they stepped toward the waiting coach, the Elton seal heavy in Raleigh’s pocket — a promise of answers, or of deeper entanglement.

Part Twenty Six – Reviewing the Night (Police Office, Morning After the Wedding)

The rain had stopped just before dawn, leaving the streets outside slick with puddles that caught what little light the gray sky allowed. In the cramped police office, the air smelled faintly of old tobacco and damp paper. Files were stacked unevenly on the desk, notes and scraps from last night’s long vigil at the Lulough estate scattered like playing cards after a careless hand.

Raleigh sat back in his chair, broad shoulders relaxed, a cup of bitter coffee cooling in his hand. Across from him, Albert leaned forward, elbows pressed into the desk, eyes scanning the scribbled reports for the fifth time as if some overlooked truth might leap out at him.

They went over what little they had gotten from the night of the murder and disappearance.
Raymond Hanns had spoken briefly with the other council members while his wife Eleanor drifted to her circle of ladies and their children before disappearing into the current of the ballroom.

Jonathan Hanns, polite but quiet, spent most of the evening in Valia Lulough’s company, though toward the end Raymond Hanns appeared withdrawn, even uneasy, the family had taken their leave before the final toast.

And that was all. No whispered quarrels. No sudden vanishing. Nothing concrete.

Albert set down his pencil, tapping it idly against the paper. “It’s as if the night never happened,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weariness of someone who wanted to believe there had to be more. “Not a single family gave us anything. ‘Not the time,’ ‘no memory,’ or simply looking straight past us. As though their silence alone could erase what they saw.”

Raleigh smiled faintly, not unkindly. “You’ll learn, lad. Nobility deals in masks and ceremonies. Their truths hide behind politeness, and their refusals behind excuses and favors. That’s the game. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a truth. Just means it won’t be handed to us like bread on a plate.”

Albert sighed, leaning back, running a hand over his hair. He was thoughtful, not reckless, but the hollowness of their findings gnawed at him. “The boy,Jonathan knows something, I can feel it. But he won’t say.”

Raleigh drained the last of his coffee, then stood to gather his coat. “Then patience, Albert. Let the boy carry his silence for now. Sooner or later, silence becomes heavy enough to break.”

Albert nodded, pushing himself up, but his eyes lingered on the scattered papers a moment longer.

THEY WILL CLAP FOR YOU

FROM THE COLLECTION OF A.P.O.R.E

(as told by The Old Lady)

Ah! I see you again, my son —

same corner, same face like rainy Monday.
You don start your performance again, abi?
Another audience? Another sad story?

You don’t even wait for greeting —
you start with “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

Ah! We don’t, but we will soon know —
you’ll make sure of it.

See you now, a grown man,

carrying pity like trophy,
distributing sorrow like sachet water.




When you talk,
the world must stop and listen.

You think your tears are rain,

and your sighs can move mountain.
Every misfortune — exhibition!
Every heartbreak — public lecture!

You don’t even suffer quietly again.

You suffer loud,

you suffer stylish,

you suffer trending.




I remember when life was not fair to us too.

We cried, yes — but we cried in silence.

We wept in the market and still sold pepper.

We buried children and still fetched water.

We carried grief like secret, not like banner.

But you? You carry it like a medal

And when people clap, you think they care.

My son, they are not clapping for your pain —

they are clapping for your performance.

For the drama! The delivery! The exaggeration!

You are the evening entertainment,
the street’s one-man cinema.




You don’t know they laugh behind your back?

They call you “The Complainer General.”

You are trending in whispers.

Your tragedy is a meme now.

They say, “Give him five minutes, he will soon cry again.”

They even place bets on what story you’ll tell next.

And you — you think it’s compassion.
You think it’s love.

You think all those “sorrys” are sympathy -
no, my dear.

They are applause.

They will clap for you!




Yes, they’ll clap when you fall,

clap when you fail,

clap when you faint dramatically in church,

and clap when you get up again,
dust yourself,

and start telling how “life is wicked.”

They will clap for you, because you perform well.

Because you’ve turned misery into cheap entertainment.




Ah, my son…

you’ve forgotten that everyone here has story.

We all carry thunder inside,
but we’ve learnt to hide our lightning.

You think you are the only one suffering?

Ask Madam Peace who buried her only child last week.

Ask Brother Tunde who laughs every morning,
but his rent is older than his firstborn.

Ask that Aunty Tina who is still waiting for her dream man at the age forty six.

Nobody is fine, my son —


we just don’t make announcement.




So why do you think your pain deserves microphone?

Why do you think pity is progress?

You want the world to clap for you,
but tell me — after they clap, what next?

Will the applause pay your bills?

Will sympathy cook your food?

Or do you just enjoy hearing your own tragedy
echo louder than your neighbor’s?




Ah! My dear boy…

you’ve mistaken pity for purpose.

You’ve confused drama with healing.

You think attention is affection.

You will soon learn —

when the noise dies down,

and nobody claps again,

that silence is the real test.

Then you’ll know if you were ever speaking truth,

or just performing pain.




I will tell you the truth you don’t want to hear:

People will always clap —
but they clap for the show, not the soul.

So perform if you want,

cry if it sells,

but remember — when the curtain falls,
you’ll still be alone backstage
with your unhealed wounds.

And the audience?
They’ve already gone home to their own sorrows.



So yes, my son —

They will clap for you.

Not because you are brave but because you are loud.

PROUDLY THE STREETS

A Poetic Memoir of Hustle and Grace



They say “the streets spoil people” —
but me, I say the streets raised me.
Not gently, no —

it didn’t rock me to sleep,
it shook me awake.

Every lesson it gave, it wrote in dust and sweat,
on cracked pavements, on empty stomachs.

And I — hungry boy from nowhere —
read those lessons like scripture.



I. The Beginning

I remember those mornings —
early sun bouncing off zinc roofs,
hawkers already preaching the gospel of survival.

We didn’t have alarm clocks;
we had bread sellers and danfo horns.

We didn’t have mentors;
we had “Oga shift, abeg make I pass.”

I learnt arithmetic by pricing life:

“Two hopes for ₦100.”

“Dreams sold per hustle.”

Every day was an exam,

and failure came without results —
just hunger.




II. The People

Ah, but the streets were not wicked —
just honest, unfiltered like the man in the mirror

And in between its broken corners,
I met angels with dust on their shoes.

Brother Seyi — the barber —
who gave me free haircuts and free wisdom:

“Never envy a man, we all run our races within our lanes.”

Madam Peace — the akara woman —

who fed half the neighborhood on credit,
telling us, “You no poor, one day you self go make am.”

And Old Soldier Musa —
who walked with a limp but talked like thunder,
teaching us that respect is not fear,

it’s discipline wrapped in survival.

Those were my lecturers.
Those were my universities.




III. The Perception

They used to say,
“Street boys no dey go far.”

They said it with clean mouths and soft hands.

But I saw professors of struggle —
men who turned ₦500 to a week of miracles.

I saw artists of endurance,
poets without pens,

teachers without classrooms —

all learning from that one rough school called Reality.

The streets don’t lie.

It tells you: nobody’s coming to save you.
So we learnt to save ourselves —
one idea, one prayer, one sweat at a time.




IV. The Lessons

The streets taught me:

How to fail and still walk with pride.

How to share a loaf with a brother, a friend, a stranger and call it abundance.

How to read faces faster than books.

How to smile even when your pockets echo.


It taught me that respect is earned,
not announced.

That loyalty is louder than grammar.

That sometimes, silence is the only way to survive an insult.


And that destiny — real destiny —
doesn’t wear a tie.
It wears slippers.




V. The Transformation

Now I sit in air-conditioned rooms,
signing papers, giving orders,

people calling me “sir” like I was born that way.
But every time I look out the tinted window,

I still see the reflection of my old street self —
the one who borrowed time, who borrowed hope.

And I whisper,

“We made it, bro. We actually made it.”

Not because I escaped the streets —
but because the streets never left me.




VI. The Truth

People think the streets are just chaos.
But if you listen closely,

you’ll hear it humming like a mother’s song.
She scolds, she slaps, she blesses —
but she never abandons her children.

The street is not just a place —
it’s a parent.

It doesn’t give you comfort,
it gives you backbone.

It doesn’t teach you to dream,
it teaches you to fight for the dream.




VII. The Ending

So now, when they ask,

“Where are you from?”
I don’t just say my town or my tribe.
I say,

“I’m proudly from the streets —

the one university that never gives up on its students.”

Because the streets didn’t just raise me —
it wrote me.

Every scar, every hustle, every small victory
is its signature on my skin.

And if life ever asks who taught me,

I’ll smile and answer:
“The Streets.

My first mentor,
My first school,
My first home.”

yungbanks:
Nice piece and I’m really enjoying it just for us the readers sake can you make the updates much longer please

I have a couple of projects on my hands so I have increased the published parts to four , daily.

Part Twenty Five – Departure and the Gift

Jonathan slipped through the hall’s double doors, the heavy air of the wedding pressing against his back like a weight. His skin still prickled from Albert’s words, from that unshakable stare that had carved into him like a scalpel. He needed air, distance, anything but that ballroom.

The night outside was drenched in fog. Lamps glowed pale along the drive, their light dissolving into the mist. He pulled his coat tighter, the chill clinging to his bones.

A figure stepped forward from the haze. Lord Madeiya. Tall, austere, his cane gleaming with the faintest trace of silver. At his side, a servant struggled under the weight of a polished oak box bound in iron clasps.

“Leaving so soon, young Hanns?” Madeiya’s voice was smooth, but beneath it, there was something like curiosity sharpened into a blade.

Jonathan offered a stiff bow. “It has been a long evening, my lord.”

Madeiya studied him for a breath, then gestured to the box. The servant lifted the lid. Inside lay a book of weathered tomes, its spine cracked and stained, bindings etched with faded sigils. Jonathan’s stomach tighten.

“This,” Madeiya said softly, “was commissioned by your late father during my last trip to Varecia, Paid for in full. Arcane Knowledge—banned under every council law worth its ink but we all have our secrets, and we look after one another.”

His eyes lingered on Jonathan’s face, gauging every twitch. “Tell me, Young Master Hanns… do you know why your father, Raymond Hanns sought such knowledge?”

The name—his father’s name—landed like a hammer. Jonathan’s throat tightened. Behind his eyes flickered the memory of prints in his father’s study.

But he forced his face still, his voice steady. “No, my lord. I’ve no idea, perhaps just another piece to his collection .”

Madeiya’s lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. He leaned closer, his cane tapping the stones between them. “Ah, yes, perhaps,"

Jonathan swallowed, his palms damp.

Madeiya straightened, the mask of courtesy snapping back into place. “Whatever the case, this book is yours now. It belongs to your house, and your house alone. Try not to put any up for a public display, Forget them if you can.”

He gestured, and the servant closed the lid with a dull snap. “But do not mistake its silence for safety.”

The box was pressed into Jonathan’s arms, heavier than it should have been. The weight sank into him—not only of wood and paper, but of expectation, of mystery, of danger he could not yet name.

“Thank you, Lord Madeiya,” Jonathan murmured, though the words felt hollow.

The older man inclined his head. “And if you have any requests of any kind and I mean any kind in the near future, Do not hesitate to call on me, A hanns can always rely on A Madeiyas.”

His eyes flickered with meaning Jonathan could not decipher.

The fog rolled in thicker as Jonathan’s car pulled away, the box beside him on the seat like a silent passenger.

Through the misted glass he glimpsed Lord Madeiya one last time, standing tall, watching, his figure dissolving into haze but his gaze lingering—sharp, unreadable, unrelenting.

Jonathan looked away, clutching the box tighter. Another secret. Another burden. Another shadow his father had left behind.

Part Twenty Four – The Dance and the Watcher

The tower’s solitude gave Jonathan no peace. He returned to the hall, drifting to its edge where shadows pooled and nobles shimmered under chandeliers.

The grand room had changed since he left. Music now commanded the air, violins chasing across marble as couples swirled into a glittering storm of color. Every movement seemed rehearsed: laughter honed like a blade, gestures polished into masks of civility. Alliances announced themselves with subtle touches—Lord Madeiya’s hand clasping Lord Morokais’s shoulder a little too firmly, the Dohertys bowing too low to Lady Lulough. Politics unfolded here not in words, but in dances, whispers, and glances sharp as razors.

Jonathan lingered near the refreshment table, a glass of deep red wine warming his fingers. He felt more observer than guest, watching his peers move as though part of a pageant he no longer belonged to.

Then, the music swelled. All eyes turned.

Franklin Phelps led Valia to the floor. They cut a striking pair—the wealthy industrialist in his crimson suit, the bride radiant in silver. Their steps were perfect, their grace undeniable, their union announced with each spin and dip. Applause burst like thunder around them.

Jonathan’s stomach knotted. He raised the glass to his lips, hoping the wine might dull the ache of watching her smile at another man.

But through the corner of his vision, something pulled him away from the spectacle. Roger. The pale assistant slipped quietly into a side passage, his movement deliberate, unnoticed by the crowd. A shadow sliding into deeper shadows. Suspicion pricked at Jonathan’s nerves.

He set his glass down, ready to follow—

“Careful there, Master Hanns.”

The voice came low, close. Jonathan froze as Detective Albert Raleigh stepped into view, a glass in his own hand, his eyes sharp as steel under thinning brows. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile a wolf gave before the bite.

“You’ve been hard to pin down tonight,” Albert murmured, clinking his glass against Jonathan’s in mock cheer. “Avoiding old friends in blue?”

Jonathan forced a thin smile. “I wasn’t aware I was.”

Albert studied him with the patience of a man who lived to sift through lies. “The community’s restless, you know. They want blood. They want answers. And when nobles want answers, they turn their eyes on men like us, like me.”
He sipped, gaze never leaving Jonathan. “So tell me, Master—are you quite certain you’ve told us everything you know about that night?”

The words slid under Jonathan’s skin like cold knives. His pulse quickened. He tried to steady his glass, but Albert’s eyes caught the tremor in his hand.

That flinch—so small, so fleeting—was all Albert needed. His smirk deepened, wolfish.

“There it is,” the detective whispered, almost with satisfaction. “A man doesn’t look like that unless he carries something, some are quick to mistake it for grief but a few can just see through it.”

Jonathan stiffened, fighting to mask the rising panic.

"What are you trying to say? " Jonathan replied.

Albert leaned closer, voice low enough to be drowned by the music. “You must forgive my audacity, do enjoy the rest of your evening, Master Hanns,"

He straightened, downed the rest of his glass, and melted back into the crowd. But Jonathan felt his gaze still burning against his back long after he was gone.

The music resumed its bright, elegant march. But to Jonathan, every note carried the echo of Albert’s promise.

Part Twenty Three – The Tower Conversation

Valia’s touch was light but insistent as she drew Jonathan away from the hall of politics and whispers. The music faded behind them, muffled by marble corridors, until they reached the spiral staircase that curled upward into the tower.

The climb was steep, but familiar. Jonathan’s hand brushed the cold stone rail, and memory flickered—years ago, he and Valia racing each other up these very steps, laughing breathless, children unburdened by grief and duty.

Now, silence filled the climb.

At the top, the door opened to a small balcony overlooking IronClover. The city glimmered below in a wash of lanternlight and steam, a living tapestry of industry and intrigue. Here, above the noise, the air felt sharper, freer.

Valia turned to face him, her silver gown catching the moonlight, her eyes catching his.
“Why have you been avoiding me, Jonathan?” Her voice trembled, not with anger, but with ache. “After the accident… after your father… you vanished. You wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t let me visit. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. Behind her words, he heard genuine care—the kind only she had ever given him freely. But the image of his mother and brother, pale and half-monster in the cellar, rose unbidden. The Roth sickness was his secret curse. No one could know.

He swallowed hard, forcing the weight down. “I… I couldn’t. It wasn’t about you. I just—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Valia.”

For a moment, the distance between them dissolved. Her features softened, lips curving into the faintest smile. She reached out, brushing his sleeve gently. “You never had to carry it alone, you know. I was worried,”

He wanted to believe her. But the truth was a burden no one should share.

She leaned back slightly, her tone shifting. “Franklin Phelps,” she said, almost as though the name tasted bitter.

Jonathan tensed. “Your husband-to-be.”

Valia’s gaze drifted to the city below. “It isn’t what you think. This marriage—it’s politics. My mother’s design. With Franklin buying out the Vyre distribution chain from Lord Madeiya, he’ll be one of the most powerful men in IronClover. She wants the Lulough name secured in that future.”

Jonathan studied her face. The faint downturn of her lips, the hesitation in her voice. “Do you love him?”

The question lingered in the cool night air, heavier than any courtly banter below. Valia did not answer. Her eyes flickered, caught somewhere between truth and silence. She turned away instead, her hand tightening on the stone balustrade.

The moment fractured when the door creaked open. Roger entered, tall, immaculate, the pale of his skin betraying what he was. A maid followed him, bowing politely.

“Forgive the interruption,” Roger said smoothly, though his piercing blue eyes were not on Valia—they were fixed on Jonathan. A bow, respectful in form, but in his gaze something else lingered: suspicion, challenge, perhaps even recognition.

Valia exhaled softly, forcing a smile. “They’ve been searching for me. It seems duty always finds us, doesn’t it?”

She touched Jonathan’s arm once more, a silent thank you, before turning to leave with her attendants. Roger’s glance lingered a heartbeat too long as he bowed out, leaving Jonathan in the moonlight, unsettled and alone.

The tower felt colder without her presence.

Part Twenty Two – Condolences and Politics

The silence around Jonathan had only just begun to soften when Lord Madeiya swept across the hall like a shadow in silk. Tall, statuesque, his pale skin gleaming under the chandeliers, he exuded a timeless authority. His dark eyes caught Jonathan’s and held them as though measuring the worth of the boy before him.

“Jonathan Hanns,” he intoned, his voice calm but commanding.

“IronClover grieves with you. Your father was… formidable. His absence leaves a wound not easily mended.”

Jonathan inclined his head, the words rehearsed, the mask fixed: “My family thanks you for your kindness.”

But already another voice chimed in, smoother, warmer — Lord Doherty, rotund and rosy-faced, his wife on his arm.

“Yes, yes, indeed. Tragedy of the highest order. But take comfort, lad. You are not alone. Should you need support—funds, counsel, alliances—you need only call upon us. The Hanns name carries weight still.”

Every condolence came gilded with calculation. Wealth, influence, favors—each an invitation to debt, to obligation. Jonathan felt their eyes upon him not with sympathy, but with hunger.

Still, he nodded, murmuring his thanks, even as his gaze swept the room, searching… Where is she? He had not yet seen Valia.

Then another voice, low and smooth, slithered into the circle: Lord Morokais. His smile was a crescent moon, cold and promising.


“Such grief as yours… it clouds memory, does it not? Perhaps… with the right guidance, certain arcane methods could help you recover what was lost that night. We would be happy to help resolve this situation and bring you closure ”

Jonathan stiffened. He masked it quickly, but the thought of the arcane arts touching his mind unsettled him. He opened his mouth to respond—

“Master Hanns.”

Two figures stepped forward: Detectives Raleigh and Albert. Their presence here was anomaly enough, their timing even more so. Raleigh’s lined face was unreadable, while Albert’s sharp eyes gleamed with opportunity.

“A shame to intrude upon noble company,” Raleigh said with a polite bow, “but we too must offer our condolences… and, perhaps, ask a question or two.”

The tension thickened like smoke. The noble lords bristled, offended by the intrusion, yet unwilling to yield their prey. Jonathan stood in the center of a tightening circle.

Then Lord Madeiya’s voice cut in again, sharp and deliberate:
“Perhaps… a hunter should be brought into this matter. Their methods may be crude, but efficient. A swift resolution might restore calm to all our people.”

The words landed like a dropped blade.

The detectives stiffened. Raleigh’s tone was iron: “Lord Madeiya, Hunters and their methods are not sanctioned for official work in Iron Clover. To employ them would be reckless… embarrassing, even.”

Albert added, more pointed: “To call in hunters is to declare war on shadows, my lord. It stinks of desperation. Surely the Council prefers order, not spectacle.”

"You must understand the tension and nature of things, my people will not be persecuted for a crime they are not guilty of, do what you must, do it fast!" Lord Madeiyas voice was stern and swift.


The nobles’ eyes slid back to Jonathan. Expectant. Pressing. He felt sweat bead at his temple, his throat tightening. Every second stretched, the walls closing in, until—

A soft, clear voice:

“Forgive me, gentlemen, but I believe he’s endured enough for tonight.”

Valia Lulough.

She stepped into the circle like light piercing fog, her gown of silver and pearl catching every glimmer of candlelight. The nobles parted for her, their power momentarily eclipsed by her presence. She laid a gentle hand on Jonathan’s arm.

“Come,” she said, her smile carrying both command and warmth. “He is my guest, and I would have him to myself a while.”

Jonathan exhaled, relief disguised as courtesy. He bowed slightly, allowed her to guide him away. As he followed her out of the circle, he cast one fleeting glance back — saw Raleigh’s shrewd eyes narrowing, Madeiya’s face unreadable, Morokais still smiling faintly, as if he had lost nothing.

Jonathan knew he had escaped… but not for long.

Thanks for reading, pls drop your comments as you read, much appreciated.

Part Twenty One – Arrival at the Mansion

The carriage hummed softly as its electric motor carried Jonathan and Heller up the winding road.

Fog clung to the trees, parting only as the lanterns of the Lulough estate rose into view — a palace of light, towering above IronClover like a jewel in the night.

Inside the carriage, silence pressed heavy. Jonathan’s hand rested on his knee, trembling ever so slightly. His thoughts were far from the celebration: the cellar, his mother’s whispers, his brother’s hunger. He almost forgot where he was until Heller’s steady voice cut through.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Heller said, eyes fixed on the road. “But if you do… then hold your head high, lad. They’ll smell weakness like wolves.”

Jonathan gave no answer at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and strained, until at last he whispered:

“It's alright Heller, I will be fine. I have to do this - For her.”

The carriage rolled to a stop. Before them stretched a staircase of marble and flame, every step lined with lanterns. Music floated faintly from within, strings and flutes painting the night in notes of celebration. Servants stood at attention, their uniforms immaculate, faces unreadable.

Jonathan exhaled, long and heavy, before stepping out. His boots struck the stone with deliberate force. Every breath felt weighted as he ascended the stairs, each step echoing his father’s lessons about composure, about what it meant to be a Hanns.

The doors opened.

The brilliance of the grand hall struck him like a blow: chandeliers dripping with crystal, tapestries of gold and deep burgundy, and the finest nobles of IronClover gathered in splendor. Laughter and music wove through the air—until Jonathan entered.

Silence fell.

A hundred eyes turned, the air thick with whispers unsaid yet deafening in their weight. The Hanns heir, survivor of the massacre, the heir who survived.

A ripple of hushed voices stirred: curiosity, suspicion, pity, envy. Fans fluttered, hands covered mouths, gazes sharpened.

Jonathan’s chest tightened, but he did not falter. He forced himself forward, every step across the polished floor deliberate, steady, his father’s ghost whispering: a gentleman is judged not by fortune, but by bearing.

The silence broke at last as the orchestra resumed, music swelling to cover the murmurs. The nobles returned to their dances and games, though eyes still lingered upon him.

Jonathan felt each stare like a blade. He was in the lion’s den, and every smile concealed teeth.

Part Twenty Detectives in Suits

The great hall of the Lulough estate shimmered under chandeliers of cut crystal, every surface catching fire from hundreds of candles. Gold leaf traced the walls, and servants in immaculate livery moved like shadows among the nobility, offering silver trays heavy with wine and delicacies.

Two figures slipped through the glittering crowd, their presence noted but not welcomed: Detectives Raleigh and Albert, their dark suits tailored well enough to pass, yet lacking the polish of the ancient families and their jeweled attire. They walked like men accustomed to alleys and interrogation rooms, not marble staircases. Their very posture set them apart.

It didn’t take long before Commissioner Webb spotted them. His round frame stiffened, jowls quivering as though the sight alone might ruin his evening. He forced a smile — the politician’s kind, stretched thin with surprise.

“Raleigh. Albert,” he said, voice tight. “What in the blazes are you doing here?”

“Business,” Raleigh replied, his tone clipped, giving nothing away. Albert offered only the ghost of a nod, his eyes scanning the crowded hall for more than conversation.

“Business?” Webb chuckled nervously, tugging at his collar. “Why, I’m here on business as well. Important council matters. Vital work.”

The detectives exchanged a look — sharp, skeptical. They knew better. Webb was a man who recoiled from danger, more likely to attend for the wine, food and prestige than for any pressing duty. His discomfort betrayed him.

Before Webb could spin another excuse, a new pair swept into their circle: Lord Vaughan Elton and his wife, Lady Amelia Elton. The Eltons, resplendent in silk and diamonds, were the sort of nobles who filled rooms simply by existing. Vaughan’s laugh was booming, his cane striking the marble as punctuation; Amelia’s smile was razor-edged, perfected to draw blood behind politeness.

“Commissioner Webb,” Vaughan Elton announced, voice cutting through the music, “always finding the softest seats at the hardest times. And here—our diligent detectives.”

Amelia tilted her head toward Raleigh and Albert, her voice silk and venom. “Still chasing shadows, are we? Whispers and winds? Meanwhile, the streets grow restless. Perhaps you gentlemen should try drastic measures instead of skulking about. This case has taken way too long! ”

The insult was wrapped in refinement, but the sting was deliberate. Webb flushed crimson, sputtering some defense. Raleigh only raised a brow. Albert smirked faintly, as if amused at being scolded like children by nobles who had never dirtied their shoes on cobblestones.

Vaughan Elton pressed on, waving his hand dismissively. “Council grows impatient. What the people need is a firm hand, not endless theories. Chase ghosts if you must, but remember — order is not restored by questions, but by action.”

The detectives let the barbs fall without protest, their silence a blade sharper than any retort. Webb, however, floundered, caught between defending himself and placating the Eltons. His usual bluster failed under their mocking gaze.

When the nobles finally drifted away, Webb sagged with relief, muttering curses under his breath. Raleigh clapped him once on the shoulder — not kindly, but with deliberate weight.

“Enjoy your business, Commissioner,” Raleigh said, voice flat as stone.

The detectives left him standing there, sour-faced and sweating in his own humiliation. They walked away together, and for the first time that evening, a flicker of amusement danced between them. To watch Webb suffer at the hands of those he sought to please was almost worth the evening’s ordeal.

In the corner, music swelled again, drowning their quiet laughter.

Part Nineteen The Bell and the Vampire

The tape had barely slipped from Jonathan’s shoulders when the sound of the front bell cut through the stillness of the shop. A crisp, deliberate chime that seemed louder than it should have been.

Humphrey paused, head lifting, then set the chalk aside. “A customer,” he murmured, as though naming a storm on the horizon.

Together, they stepped back into the front room.

At first glance, the man standing there seemed carved from shadow and winter light: tall, immaculately dressed, his features sharp enough to cut. His skin bore the faint pallor that no rouge could disguise, his eyes a startling, crystalline blue. A vampire.

Jonathan stopped cold, breath shallow. The sight of him pressed some buried instinct — unease, or recognition he could not name.

Humphrey, however, moved swiftly into formality, voice steady though his glance betrayed a flicker of wariness.

“Master Roger,” he greeted with a small bow. “You honor my shop. I have the suit ready for you.”

The stranger inclined his head. His lips barely curved in what might have passed as courtesy. “Doctor Phelps will be pleased,” he said, voice smooth, resonant.

Humphrey lifted the red suit from its mannequin, presenting it with both hands. Roger accepted it, his long fingers brushing the fabric with reverence. But it was not the suit he studied. His gaze slid, unhurried, to Jonathan.

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the quiet hum of the oil lamps, the faint scent of cedar and pressed wool, and that stare — cool, probing, unblinking. Jonathan felt as though the vampire could see beneath his skin, through the weight of his composure, down to the shadows he carried.

Humphrey cleared his throat. “This is young master Jonathan Hanns. You may recall his family—”

“A name,” Roger said softly, still staring. “One does not forget the name Hanns.”

The silence that followed was not long, but it felt endless. Then, with deliberate calm, Roger turned, the suit draped over his arm. The bell chimed again as he left, its sharp note cutting through the air like a blade.

Humphrey exhaled, forcing a laugh. “Do not trouble yourself, lad. Vampires always look as though they’re measuring coffins. It’s their way.”

But Jonathan’s chest remained tight, his palms damp.

Part Eighteen Raymond’s Sighted at Coral Street

Humphrey gestured for Jonathan to follow him past the display floor, through a beaded curtain into the backroom. The air here was quieter still, filled with the faint rustle of fabric rolls stacked neatly against the walls. A single oil lamp burned on the worktable, its glow soft against the tailor’s lined face.

“Stand straight,” Humphrey said gently, pulling a length of chalked string from his pocket.

His hands, though aged, still moved with precision as he began measuring Jonathan’s shoulders.

For a time, neither spoke. Only the sound of the string brushing cloth, the faint scratch of chalk against fabric. Then Humphrey broke the silence.

“You wear grief like a coat too heavy for you, lad,” he murmured. “I know it well. In the third War, I lost my wife and boy. To the fire and the madness. Nearly broke me clean in two.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. He had heard stories, but never this plainly.

“What pulled you through?” he asked, almost against his will.

Humphrey smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. “Time, friends, and work. And the kindness of your family. Raymond never spoke of it, but his father made certain I had orders enough to keep my shop alive when I might have let it die. It is why I tell you this: do not walk alone too long. Attend the wedding, lad. Even if only to see familiar faces. It might do you some good.”

Jonathan lowered his gaze, unwilling to promise.

Humphrey shifted, measuring his chest. His voice took on a softer, thoughtful edge. “Strange thing, though. Just before the… tragedy, I thought I saw him. Your father.”

Jonathan’s head lifted sharply. “You saw him?”

“Aye. Down in Coral Street. Not a place I’d expect a Hanns to be.” Humphrey’s brow furrowed as he marked the measure with chalk. “At first I dismissed it. A trick of the fog. But no—the posture, the eyes. I’d swear it was him. Sitting at a café, of all places. With a man in a purple hat.”

Jonathan’s breath caught. Coral Street — the slums, the forgotten quarter. His father, a man of steel and council halls, had no reason to be there.

“You’re certain?”

Humphrey hesitated, string taut in his hands. “Certain enough that the memory clings. But I could have been mistaken. The fog plays games in that quarter.” He shook his head, as if to wave it off, though the unease in his eyes betrayed him.

Jonathan said nothing. But the thought rooted itself in his mind: Raymond Hanns, meeting in secret, in a place no councilman should tread.

And with a stranger in a purple hat.

Thanks for reading.

Part Seventeen Wedding Bells


The Ride Through IronClover

The car hummed beneath Jonathan, a low electric growl that carried him through the restless arteries of IronClover. Around him, the city was alive: horses clattered past on the cobbles, their riders shouting at merchants who spilled their wares too far into the road; brass carriages wheezed steam into the fog; hawkers bellowed of fresh bread and clockwork trinkets; street urchins darted between wheels with the agility of rats.

But Jonathan heard none of it. The din of the streets, the pulse of the city, seemed to fall away into silence. His mind was elsewhere—buried beneath the earth, where his mother and brother waited in the dark, where hunger gnawed and memory ached. He could still see his mother’s eyes, pleading, lucid for a moment before the Roth took her under again. He clenched his hands, shutting it out.

Young master ,” Heller’s voice cut in, steady and practical, the way only a butler’s could. “We’re here.”

Jonathan blinked, the world rushing back. The car had slowed before a familiar façade—wooden beams blackened by age, brass trimmings polished to a warm sheen, the sign above swaying gently in the morning breeze: Humphrey’s, Tailor of Distinction. The Hanns had been clients of the old man for as long as Jonathan could remember. His father had once said a man was measured as much by his suit as his word, and Humphrey was the only one he trusted to cut cloth for the family.

Jonathan hadn’t planned on coming here. He rarely planned anything these days. But Heller had been insistent—no, sly about it, maneuvering their errands until Jonathan found himself deposited here, in front of Humphrey’s door, with no polite excuse to leave.

“I’ll fetch supplies for the house,” Heller said, climbing down from the driver’s seat with an ease belying his age. “And some presents for the Luloughs’ wedding. You’ll be fine here.”

Jonathan managed a faint smile. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“Trouble is what keeps me alive, Master Hanns. ” Heller tipped his hat, then was off, vanishing into the crowded street with the brisk determination of a man who’d lived his life solving other men’s problems.

Jonathan sat for a moment longer, staring at the shopfront.

The air smelled faintly of soot and oil, the lifeblood of IronClover. Above, the fog rolled low, muting the sun into a pale disc. With a slow breath, Jonathan pushed open the door and stepped inside.



The Tailor’s Warm Room

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as Jonathan stepped inside. A wave of warmth met him, chasing off the morning chill. The familiar scents wrapped around him: pressed wool, polished leather, and cedar shavings — the perfume of a place where time was measured not by hours, but by the patient stroke of scissors and the whisper of thread.

The room was quiet, almost reverent, and at its heart stood a suit unlike any he had seen in years. Crimson, rich as spilled wine, tailored to a sharp silhouette and laced with a precision few men in IronClover could afford. It stood on its mannequin like a king before a throne, commanding respect.

Jonathan stopped. His breath caught, not for the color nor the cut, but because he knew what his father would have said. A gentleman is first seen, then heard. Dress to be addressed, son.

Memory unfurled, sudden and vivid. He was a boy again, no more than twelve, standing fidgeting in this very shop. Raymond Hanns had crouched to his level, one heavy hand resting on his shoulder, the other pointing to a simple gray suit Humphrey had made just for him.

“A man may build engines and bridges, Jonathan, but the world will weigh his worth by how he carries himself. A proper suit isn’t cloth. It’s a statement.”

Jonathan had stood tall that day, swimming in a jacket still a little too broad, while Raymond’s laughter filled the shop. “Now look at you — a Hanns already.”

The echo faded, and the present pressed in again. Jonathan exhaled slowly, eyes still on the red suit. It was flawless. Perfect in every stitch.

“Ah,” came a voice, steady and warm, cutting through the haze. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Old Humphrey emerged from the back, spectacles low on his nose, silver hair cropped neatly, his gait slow but dignified.

He carried age on his shoulders but wore it with the grace of a craftsman who had never abandoned his trade.

Jonathan turned, forcing a faint smile. “Humphrey.”

They shook hands. There was warmth in the touch, but beneath it, something heavier — grief unspoken, a recognition of wounds time had yet to close. Humphrey’s eyes softened as they studied Jonathan, seeing through the composure to the boy still mourning beneath the man.


Jonathan’s gaze lingered on a crimson masterpiece until Humphrey followed his eyes and gave a small, knowing nod.

“Striking, isn’t it? But alas, not for you, lad.” The old tailor’s voice carried its usual mixture of pride and apology.

He stepped closer to the mannequin, adjusting the lapel with fingers that still moved as deftly as they had thirty years ago. “This one is reserved.”

“For whom?” Jonathan asked, though part of him already sensed the answer.

“Franklin Phelps,” Humphrey replied, matter-of-fact. “The young genius of medicine himself. Word is, the Council whispers of him as the next great name of IronClover. Heir to Phelps Pharmaceuticals, and soon to seal that reputation with marriage.”

Jonathan’s throat tightened. “Marriage, The Lulough? ”

Humphrey gave a faint smile, as though the news were common knowledge. “You have been paying attention, Yes Master Jonathan, Miss Valia Lulough. The ceremony will mark more than a union of families — it will bind industry and council alike. A clever match, you must admit.”

The words struck Jonathan like a blade sheathed in velvet. Valia. Her laughter, her letters, her stubborn kindness — now tethered to another.

To Franklin, no less, whose star seemed only to rise higher with each passing season even his father had made quite the remarks of the boy genius while he was still alive.

Humphrey went on, adjusting the suit with careful pride. “They say Phelps is negotiating to buy out the Madeiyas’ Vyre distribution chains here in Iron Clover. The price will be staggering, but the return? Even greater. With Vyre distribution under his family’s banner, he’ll have the city and the whole of the council by its veins.”

Jonathan hardly heard him. His chest filled with something restless — not quite jealousy, not quite grief. A quiet envy, sharp and silent, coiled beneath his ribs. He had no claim to Valia, no right even to protest, and yet the knowledge gnawed at him.

The red suit gleamed beneath the lamplight, bold and immaculate, a symbol of everything Franklin Phelps was destined to be. Jonathan tore his gaze away, though the weight of it clung to him.

Part Sixteen – Shadows Beneath

Jonathan entered his room and shut the door softly behind him. The click of the latch seemed louder than it should, as though the silence of the mansion magnified every small sound.

He leaned against the door for a moment, breathing slow, his palms damp. His gaze wandered across the chamber: the canopy bed dressed in gray, the tall windows draped shut against the morning light, the heavy furniture his father had commissioned decades ago. Everything was in its place, orderly, timeless. Yet to Jonathan it all felt staged, as if the room were a set built to convince him that life remained normal.

But nothing was normal. Not anymore.

He crossed to the window and drew back the curtain. IronClover stretched beneath him in its peculiar, restless beauty—smokestacks rising like blackened fingers, brass gears turning on factory roofs, airships drifting across a pale sky. The city was alive, growing, forging ahead.

And here he stood, alone, haunted, with shadows chained above his room.

Room 32.

The thought gnawed at him again. Every step on the staircase, every glance down that darkened corridor, brought him closer to the truth he was too afraid to face: his mother and brother, still there, still something other than what they had once been. His family reduced to hunger and whispers in the dark.

He pressed his forehead against the glass, cold and unyielding. For a fleeting instant he imagined unlocking the door, stepping inside, facing them. Perhaps ending it all with the Winchester revolver still hanging downstairs.

But the image broke him. His stomach clenched, his throat tightened. He could not. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

Behind his reflection in the glass, IronClover shimmered in the pale light. The world outside demanded he keep living, but the mansion, with its locked doors and silent halls, demanded something else—something darker.

Jonathan shut the curtain, sealing the view away. He sank onto the bed, dragging a hand through his hair, green eyes heavy with a fear he would never admit aloud.

And in the silence, above the Ceilingboards, Room 32 waited.

Part Fifteen – The Butler’s Counsel

“Young master,” Heller’s voice intruded again, firmer this time, like a hand tugging him back from the dark spiral of thoughts. The old butler had always known when Jonathan’s mind was straying where it should not.

“I will have Master Humphrey take your measurements tomorrow. A proper coat, perhaps a new suit.”

Jonathan, halfway down the staircase, halted. The air smelled faintly of dust and iron. “If that is for the Lulough wedding, I must disappoint you. I will not be attending.”

His voice echoed through the silent hall, stripped bare of servants since he had dismissed them all. It sounded hollow, almost foreign.

Heller, hands folded behind his back, did not blink. “She will look for you if you do not come.”

Jonathan’s lips tightened. He didn’t need to ask who.

Valia Lulough.

Her image came unbidden: dark curls, laughter bright as sunlight cutting through the gloom of lecture halls, a ribbon in her hair the color of spring leaves. His first friend in college, and his only real one.
who never stopped reaching out, even now, through letters unanswered and inquiries ignored.

And now she was to be wed. To stay away would wound her. To go would wound him.

Jonathan exhaled, long and reluctant. “Have Master Humphrey prepare something suitable.”

“Very good, young master,” Heller said, the faintest relief hidden in his tone.

Jonathan turned, climbing the stairs again. The old wood groaned under his weight, the mansion sighing as if in protest. At the landing he slowed—eyes drawn, unwilling, to the door just below his floor.

Room 32.

It sat in darkness, heavy and silent, as if the air around it thickened. Every night, every morning, he passed it, and every time it seemed to breathe against him, gnawing at his resolve.

He swallowed, tore his gaze away, and ascended the last flight to his chamber. But the dread lingered, pressing against his back like unseen eyes watching him retreat.

Thank you all for your kind words.