The Unseen Brother

Silverware clinked against fine china. Morning sunlight poured through the towering arched windows of the grand Sinclair dining room. Hazel sat near the edge of a velvet-upholstered chair, her small hands gripping a piece of warm, buttered bread. She chewed in silence. Maids moved gracefully around the long mahogany table, clearing away empty plates and refilling crystal water glasses.

Declan stood nearby, shrugging into his tailored school blazer. The head maid, Martha, handed him a steaming silver thermos.

Hazel swallowed her bite of bread. She brushed a few crumbs from her lap. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the polished wood, and looked up at her brother. "Brother," Hazel murmured, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Is it just us living here?"

Declan paused. He adjusted his sharp collar and glanced down at her. "No. You have three other brothers." He walked over, leaning against the tall back of her chair. "But right now, only me and our third brother are home. The others are away."

Four brothers. Hazel mentally counted them on her fingers. The math felt simple enough. She looked back up, her large eyes wide and curious. "What about the third brother? Can I meet him?"

The casual ease vanished from Declan’s posture. His hand dropped to his side. His jaw tightened, pressing his pale lips into a flat line. A heavy shadow fell over his dark eyes. "He isn't feeling well. He is resting." His tone held a firm, solemn weight, shutting down any further questions.

Hazel shrank back an inch. She gave a small nod, committing the rule to memory. Do not bother the sick brother.

A maid brought Declan his heavy leather backpack. He slung it over one shoulder. Hazel scrambled down from her tall chair. She stood near the edge of the dining table, her tiny fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. She watched him head for the arched doorway, reluctant to see him leave so soon.

Declan stopped. He turned around, catching her anxious gaze tracking his every move. He let out a quiet sigh and walked back. "I am heading to school now," he said, his voice softening. "I won't be back until tonight. Don't go running around the mansion on your own. It is too big, and you will get lost."

He gestured toward the older woman standing by the sideboard. "Martha will take you to your room. Let her settle you in. Just be good and wait for me."

Hazel desperately wanted to cling to his sleeve. She wanted to follow him out the massive front doors. But she knew better. Good girls stayed out of the way. She took a step back, giving him plenty of space. "Got it, Declan. I will wait."

Declan stared at her upturned face. His fingers twitched. He shifted his weight, looking out of his element. After a tense beat of hesitation, he reached out. His large hand awkwardly rested on top of her head. He gave her soft hair a clumsy rustle. "Be good. I will bring you something nice when I get back."

Hazel’s breath hitched. A bright, beaming smile broke across her face. "Okay!"

She cared nothing about whatever gift he planned to bring. The promise of a toy or a sweet meant little. The warmth radiating from his palm, the simple affectionate touch against her scalp—that mattered. Her chest swelled. A bright wave of joy flooded her veins.

Declan turned and strode out of the room, his footsteps fading down the marble hall. Hazel stood frozen in place, basking in the lingering warmth of his touch.

Martha walked over, a warm smile wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Alright, little miss. Let's get you sorted." She led Hazel up the grand staircase and down a plush, carpeted corridor. They stopped in front of a heavy oak door.

Martha pushed it open. Sunlight flooded the pristine room. Everything smelled like fresh paint and untouched wood. Cardboard boxes stacked against the walls. Plastic wrapped the large mattress.

Martha slapped her forehead. "Oh, my word. I forgot the new sheets aren't washed yet. The blankets need airing out." She bustled into the room, tossing a stray package onto a dresser. "So much to do. Getting old is no joke."

Hazel stood in the doorway. She peered up at the head maid. "Martha, you are not old." Her serious, sweet tone echoed in the quiet room.

Martha stopped organizing boxes. She placed a hand over her heart, chuckling softly. "You are too sweet. Come along, sweetheart. I can't have you tripping over all this mess. Let's get you outside for a bit."

Martha guided Hazel back downstairs and pushed open the glass patio doors. The Sinclair estate gardens stretched out like a wild green ocean. Gravel paths wound through manicured hedges and vibrant flower beds.

"Play here for a while," Martha said, patting Hazel’s shoulder. "I will come get you when your room is ready."

Martha headed back inside. Hazel wandered over to a decorative wooden bench beneath a sprawling oak tree. She sat down, swinging her short legs over the edge. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed leaves.

A few dozen yards away, a man in mud-stained overalls dragged a heavy hose across the lawn. The gardener yanked the rubber tube, trying to free a snag. His heavy boot hit a patch of slick, wet mud. He slipped. His arms flailed as he crashed hard onto his back, dropping the metal nozzle.

Hazel jumped off the bench. Her feet hit the gravel. A sharp ache shot up her calves, a persistent reminder of the battered injuries marring her legs. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain, and broke into an uneven sprint. Her irregular gait slowed her down, but she kept pushing forward until she reached the fallen man. She dropped to her knees in the damp grass, reaching out her small hands to help him sit up.

High above the garden, a sliver of darkness broke the elegant facade of the mansion. Heavy gray curtains parted just a fraction.

Rowan Sinclair stood in the shadows of his bedroom. His pale fingers gripped the edge of the thick fabric. He stared down through the cold glass.

He looked like a ghost haunting his own home. His skin held a sickly, translucent pallor. His skeletal frame looked fragile enough to snap under a strong gust of wind. Deep, bruised shadows circled his sharp, clear eyes. Bloodshot veins cracked the whites of his eyes, giving him a hollow, hunted appearance. Pale, bloodless lips pressed together in a grim line.

His body was failing him. The relentless decay inside him served as a constant reminder that his time on this earth was running out.

Yet, he could not tear his gaze away from the garden below.

He watched the tiny girl helping the massive gardener. He noticed her plain but spotless clothes. He noticed the heavy limp in her stride, the way her right leg dragged ever so slightly behind the left. An old injury. He recognized the stiffness of chronic pain.

But it did not stop her. She moved with a bright, erratic energy. She hovered around the gardener like a small, frantic bird. She possessed a radiant, unbound vitality that defied her physical limits. She was alive.

The sight felt like a physical blow to his chest. Her vibrant existence stood in stark, mocking contrast to his rotting body. He pressed his pale forehead against the windowpane. The glass chilled his skin.

A sharp knock echoed through the quiet bedroom. "Mr. Sinclair, your medicine is ready."

Rowan flinched. The spell broke. He stepped back from the window and let the gray curtain fall shut, sealing out the sunlight and the bird-like girl.

"Come in," he rasped.

A servant entered carrying a silver tray. A porcelain bowl sat in the center, steaming with thick, dark liquid. The foul, nauseating stench of boiled roots and bitter herbs instantly filled the room.

Rowan walked over to the desk. He picked up the bowl. He did not hesitate. He raised the rim to his pale lips and swallowed the dark sludge in three large gulps. The taste was vile. It burned his throat and coated his tongue in ash. He set the empty bowl back on the tray.

A cluster of unstrained herbal dregs slid down his throat. Rowan gagged. He doubled over, coughing. His thin shoulders shook with brutal force. A flush of unnatural red crept up his neck as he hacked, trying to clear his airway.

The coughing fit passed. Rowan leaned against the desk, panting. His face turned an even deadlier shade of white. He wiped a drop of dark liquid from his chin.

His gaze shifted across the wooden desktop. A ceramic pot sat near his inkwells. A wilting jasmine plant drooped over the edges of the dry soil. The leaves were brown and brittle. For months, he had meticulously watered it. He had measured its sunlight. He had desperately willed it to bloom.

It never did. It died anyway. Just like his own frail body, no amount of care could stop the inevitable rot.

Rowan straightened his posture. His voice turned flat and hollow. "Take that pot outside and throw it away."

The servant glanced at the dead jasmine. He gave a short bow, picked up the ceramic pot, and backed out of the room.

Down on the ground floor, Martha stepped out onto the patio. "Hazel! Time to come inside."

Hazel waved goodbye to the gardener and jogged back toward the glass doors. Her legs throbbed with every step, but the sun on her face kept her spirits high. She followed Martha through the grand corridors, stepping onto the polished marble floors of the main hallway.

They turned a corner. A servant walked briskly toward them from the direction of the main staircase. He held a small ceramic pot in both hands.

Hazel stopped walking. Her gaze locked onto the pot. A cluster of dry, withered brown leaves hung lifelessly over the rim. It was a dead plant, ready for the trash.

She stood frozen. Her eyes widened. A strange flutter sparked in her chest.

"Miss?" Martha asked, looking down at her.

Hazel took a step toward the servant. She lifted a scarred finger and pointed straight at the wilting branches. "Can I have this one?" Her voice rang out, clear and desperate.

The servant paused. He looked down at the dead twigs, then at the little girl blocking his path. "This jasmine?"

Hazel nodded fast. She kept her eyes glued to the brittle stems.

The servant shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. "I am sorry, miss. Mr. Rowan Sinclair told me to throw this out immediately. I could give it to you, but it is already dead. There is no point in keeping it around."

Hazel’s face fell. The words hit her hard. But she quickly shook her head, stepping even closer. "Please do not throw it away," she pleaded. She clutched her hands together beneath her chin. "Can you give it to me? Please?"

The name echoed in her head. Rowan Sinclair.

Declan’s deep voice from that morning flashed through her memory. Only me and our third brother are home... He isn't feeling well. He is resting.

The third brother. The sick brother. The one who hid in his room and never came down for breakfast.

A heavy sense of sadness washed over her, quickly followed by a spark of determined hope. This dead flower belonged to him. He ordered it thrown away because it was broken. Because it was lifeless.

Hazel stared at the brown leaves. She knew a secret. She knew she carried something unexplainable hidden deep inside her bones. She possessed a strange, quiet ability to mend broken things. If she could just get her hands on that pot, she could use her secret gift. She could pour her energy into those dry roots.

If she brought this dead flower back to life, it might make her suffering brother smile. It might bring a tiny sliver of joy into his dark, sick room. She had to try.