THE LITTLE THINGS

 

CHAPTER THREE
Sheffield, United Kingdom

“Sheldon! Where are you?! Sheldon!” Rose’s voice echoed through the hallways as she rushed from room to room, panic rising in her chest. The house stood silent—towering, old, and watching.

Their home was a Victorian marvel, its tall brick frame cloaked in ivy and moss, hues of verdure and deep purple spreading like veins across the walls. The garden bloomed wildly with roses, dandelions, and creeping vines. A narrow stream curled through the grass like a silver serpent. The place looked like something from a forgotten painting—timeless, lonely, regal.

Beautiful, after all these years, the house still stood tall like a church on a hill.

It had endured for generations. Built of brimstone and aged brick, it was once a rumored royal retreat—where monarchs would sup and sleep before slipping back to the mainland. Rose's late husband, David Leister, a decorated soldier with the British Special Forces, had inherited it through a long line of servicemen: his father, Baron Leister; his great-grandfather, Arthur Leister—all men molded by war, all gone too soon.

David’s death during a covert operation in the East left a silence no voice could fill. Rose tried—through wine, through men—but the void only grew deeper.

Sheldon hated how she clung to one man after another, looking for something to dull the ache. Most of them tried to play father to him, but Sheldon never entertained the act. He’d smile politely and remain distant, quietly resenting the way they tried to stand where his dad once stood.

No one could replace David.

On Sundays, they used to play football together, then grab lunch at the pier. On better days, they'd take rifles to the hills to hunt deer and rabbits. Sheldon loved it—loved how alive he felt beside his father, the bonding, the pride. They’d bring home their game, and Rose—when she was still whole—would cook rabbit stew or seared venison, infusing the house with warmth and spice. She had been a brilliant chef, now reduced to preparing meals for a local mayor by day and numbing herself to sleep at night with gin and grief.

Her current boyfriend, James, leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, indifferent.

“He’s probably out playing with friends,” he said.

Rose turned sharply. “Have you even been paying attention? Sheldon doesn’t have friends.”

Outside, twilight settled over the garden like a hush. Rose grew frantic, pacing through overgrown hedges and beneath rustling branches. Meanwhile, deep in the woods behind the house, Sheldon crouched low beneath a veil of leaves and twigs. His breath was slow. Focused.

In his blood-slick hands, a rabbit twitched weakly—its fur damp, its life fading.

He’d made the kill with his handmade bow and arrow. Now, he worked with methodical calm, slicing open its belly with his father’s old Swiss knife, studying its insides like a boy scientist. The woods were his escape, his way of coping—silence, solitude, and small acts of violence.

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time he returned. Rose ran to him, eyes wide, heart racing.

“Where were you?!” she shouted.

“I was just taking a walk,” Sheldon said quietly.

She grabbed his arm. “Is that blood?”

“I scraped myself climbing a tree,” he lied.

She held his gaze for a moment, suspicion flickering in her eyes—but said nothing. Instead, she pulled him into her arms, holding him tight, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Go wash up.”

He nodded and slipped past her, heading upstairs.

She stood in the hallway alone, arms wrapped around herself. Sheldon was drifting further away, slipping through her fingers like sand. He barely spoke anymore. Therapy wasn’t working. Nothing was.

And the house—once full of laughter and warmth—now creaked and groaned like it, too, was grieving.

Rose didn’t know how to save her boy.
And she was terrified of what he might become.