Chapter Text
So move around your furniture
Or put it all out on the curve
And drive away to something new
Watch the skylight sink behind you and
Begin again
Will Byers presses his forehead lightly against the cold glass of the taxi window and watches the world blur past in different shades of grey.
Rain falls down in a thin drizzle and it streaks down the window in crooked lines. The road they're on is narrow, winding through countryside that feels like it's slowly being swallowed by fog.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
The thought comes sharp and uninvited, and he forces his fingers to loosen where they’ve been gripping the strap of his backpack ever since he got into the car.
It’s ridiculous. It’s just a job.
A job he never expected to get in the first place, though.
Will glances down at his phone again, even though he’s checked the address a dozen times. There’s no signal now. He's got just one lonely bar that comes and goes like it can’t decide if it wants to stay.
Rosecliff Manor.
The name still sounds wrong in his head, like something from a gothic novel or a ghost story someone tells at a sleepover. Mrs. Sterling had said it during the interview as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe in her world it was natural - a world where buildings had names.
Rosecliff Manor is in need of a cook.
Not a house. Not a home. A whole damn manor.
Will remembers sitting at his parents’ kitchen table with his laptop open, trying not to fidget while the video call connected. The screen had flickered once, and then Mrs. Sterling had appeared.
She hadn’t smiled during the entire interview. Not once.
She’d asked him about his experience, his training, the restaurant he’d worked at in the city. Her questions had been precise, clipped. Like she was checking off boxes.
And Will had answered them carefully, like his life depended on it.
Because in a way, it does.
He still isn’t sure why she agreed to do the interview online. Most people in this line of work want to see you in person. They want to watch you move, watch you handle yourself, watch your hands.
But she hadn’t asked him to cook. She hadn’t asked him for a tasting.
She’d just stared at him through the screen and said, eventually, “You’ll do.”
Will had thought it was odd. But he hadn’t questioned it.
Because he needs the job too badly to ask too many questions.
And then, later that night, curiosity had gotten the better of him. He’d typed the name into Google with a frown, expecting a small estate, maybe a big country house.
What he got was something else entirely.
The images had loaded slowly, one by one, and each one had made his stomach sink a little further.
A mansion. An enormous, old building sprawling on the edge of a cliff, staring down at the ocean like it’s daring the sea to try and take it.
It looks unreal in pictures. It looks worse in real life.
The taxi rounds a bend, and suddenly it’s there.
Rosecliff rises out of the mist like something that shouldn’t exist, with its black stone and sharp angles, windows glowing faintly behind heavy curtains. The cliff beneath it drops away steeply, and beyond that is the ocean: dark, endless, restless.
Even from still inside the taxi, Will is sure he can hear it. The roar of waves crashing against rock far below.
Gravel crunches beneath the tires as they slowly approach the building. The gates at the front of the property are already open, waiting, as if the house has been expecting him.
Will swallows.
His chest feels tight. It's not exactly panic, because he knows too well what panic feels like. This is something else. A dull, nervous pressure under his ribs.
The driveway curves upward, leading toward the front entrance, and the mansion grows larger with every second. It looms, he thinks. It doesn’t welcome.
By the time the taxi comes to a stop in front of the double doors, Will’s palms are damp.
The driver climbs out first, moving around to the back to open the trunk. Will follows, stepping carefully onto the slick stone driveway. The rain has eased into a mist, but the wind is agonisingly cold despite his jacket.
The driver takes out his suitcases.
Both of them.
Two pieces of luggage, that’s it.
Everything he owns now fits into two battered suitcases and a backpack. The thought hits him hard and he averts his gaze to make it go away.
Will pays the driver, murmuring a thank you, and the driver gives him a strange look. It's almost like he's silently asking Will if he really wants to stay here.
When the taxi pulls away, Will just stands there for a moment. And for that moment he feels very, very small. And not just because of the monstrosity of a building he's facing.
Then the front doors open.
He's almost surprised they don't creak. A woman steps out onto the threshold.
He recognizes her instantly: Mrs. Sterling.
She looks exactly like she did on the screen. Rigid posture, neat dark coat, hands folded calmly in front of her. Her hair is pinned back so tightly it looks like it might hurt. Her face is pale, sharp around the cheekbones, her eyes watchful in a way that makes Will straighten without thinking.
She studies him for a beat.
Then she inclines her head.
"Mr. Byers," she says, voice crisp.
Will blinks at the formality. "It’s... it’s just Will."
Mrs. Sterling’s mouth tightens slightly. But still no trace of a smile.
"Very well. Will." She steps aside. "Please bring your bags inside. The caretaker will bring them up to your room for you."
Will grabs the handles, the weight tugging at his arms, and follows her inside.
Warm air hits him immediately, smelling faintly of polish and old wood. The entrance hall is enormous with its high ceilings, sweeping staircase and marble floor.
Everything is immaculate. Everything is perfect. Too perfect.
Will pauses despite himself.
It’s… beautiful.
And it’s wrong at the same time.
There are portraits lining the walls, staring down at him with eyes that look too alive. There’s a long rug stretching toward a hallway that disappears into shadow. There are tall windows at the far end, the glass dark with rain.
It doesn’t feel like a home.
It feels like a museum.
Or a mausoleum.
He forces himself to keep moving.
A man appears from somewhere. He's dressed in dark work clothes and only nods once to Mrs. Sterling, before he reaches for Will's suitcases without a word.
“Thank you,” Will says automatically, and the man only grunts before heading toward the stairs.
Mrs. Sterling begins walking immediately, not waiting to see if Will follows.
Will hurries after her, his shoes clicking against marble.
"As I said during our interview," she says, "Rosecliff Manor has been in the Wheeler family for generations."
Will tries not to stare too openly at everything as they walk. He can’t help it. Every hallway feels like it branches into three more. He’s going to get lost within the first hour. He knows it.
"Mr. Wheeler Senior and his wife moved out when Mr. Wheeler Junior took over the estate," Mrs. Sterling continues. "Mr. Wheeler Junior has lived here his entire life."
Will nods, though his throat feels dry.
"Mike Wheeler," he repeats quietly, mostly to himself. He's seen pictures of him online and he wonders if he - just like this building - will look more intimidating in real life.
Mrs. Sterling doesn’t respond.
They turn down a hallway lined with doors. Will catches glimpses of rooms through open doors.
The further they go, the more Will’s unease grows. And he slowly realizes where it comes from.
There are no signs of life here. No scattered shoes. No toys. No half-finished cups of tea. No laughter. No warmth.
Just perfection and silence.
Mrs. Sterling leads him through a set of swinging doors and they're finally in the kitchen.
And it's unlike any other kitchen he's been in before. It's huge.
Will looks at the stainless steel counters and the double oven with awe. Everything gleams, spotless and expensive, like it’s been waiting for someone to finally use it.
For the first time since the taxi ride began, Will feels something like excitement.
"This will be your domain," Mrs. Sterling says, as if she can tell. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for Mr. Wheeler and his daughter. On occasion, guests."
Will nods quickly. "Yes. Yes, ma’am."
Mrs. Sterling gives him a look at the ma’am, but she doesn’t correct him.
They continue. Up the seemingly never ending stairs.
Will’s legs already ache by the time they reach the second floor. Mrs. Sterling climbs as if she’s done it her entire life without ever once growing tired.
At the top, she stops and gestures down the hallway to the right.
"That wing is reserved for the family," she says. "Mr. Wheeler’s office, Miss Lily’s room, and the master suite."
Will nods, trying not to look too long in that direction.
Mrs. Sterling points left.
"This wing is for staff. Your room is here. Each room has an adjoining bathroom. The housekeeper will handle cleaning. Laundry is done weekly."
Will stares at her as his brain tries to process it and fails.
"Oh," he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. "Okay."
Mrs. Sterling begins walking again, and Will follows like a shadow.
They pass another staircase leading upward.
Will’s gaze flicks to it. "What’s up there?"
Mrs. Sterling doesn’t stop. "The third floor is not to be entered."
The words are so final they make Will’s skin prickle.
He opens his mouth, curiosity bubbling up, but something in her tone warns him not to push.
So he doesn’t.
They continue down the staff hallway, and Mrs. Sterling stops in front of a door.
She opens it, revealing a modest room. Inside is a simple bed, small dresser, a desk, clean sheets. Nothing fancy, but comfortable. The air smells faintly of soap. There’s a door to a small bathroom and, to Will’s surprise, a glass door leading to a narrow balcony.
Mrs. Sterling steps aside. "This will be yours."
Will moves into the room slowly, and takes another look around.
"It’s… nice," he says quietly.
Mrs. Sterling nods once. "If you require anything, you will come to me."
Will turns back to her. "Yes."
She holds out a set of keys. “Your room key. And the key to the main entrance. You will begin tomorrow morning at seven. Breakfast will be served at eight.”
Will takes them, fingers closing around the cold metal.
"Yes. Thank you."
Mrs. Sterling pauses at the door.
For a moment, she looks like she might say something else. Something softer.
Then her expression settles back into that rigid calm.
"Good evening, Will."
She leaves and the door closes behind her with a quiet click.
Will stands alone in the silence, staring at the keys in his hand.
His suitcases are already in the room, placed neatly beside the bed.
Will drops his backpack onto the bed and looks around again.
This is real. He’s really here.
He should unpack. He should call his parents. He should do something normal.
Instead, he walks to the balcony doors and opens them.
Cold air rushes in immediately, sharp with salt.
The rain has stopped completely now, but the sky is still heavy and dark, promising more to come.
He inhales.
The smell of the sea fills his lungs.
And for the first time in what feels like months, maybe longer, something inside him loosens.
Just a little.
And he tells himself, that this might be the place where he can finally breathe again.
That's when he hears it - a voice.
Will leans forward, resting his hands on the railing and looks down.
Below his balcony is a terrace that stretches out toward the cliffside. And on that terrace stands someone.
A man around his age. Tall, dark hair, shoulders drawn tight. He has a phone pressed to his ear, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his coat.
Will recognizes him from his online research.
Mike Wheeler.
And now has an answer to the question he'd asked himself earlier: he does look different in real life than in the pictures online.
In those he'd been clean-cut, polished, always wearing a suit.
But all Will sees now is a tired man, hollowed out by life or something even heavier.
Mike turns slightly, and Will catches a glimpse of his profile - his sharp jaw and his eyes fixed somewhere out over the ocean as he speaks into the phone. Will can’t hear the words because the ocean and wind are too loud.
Will exhales slowly and steps back from the railing. He really doesn't want his boss to catch him staring at him.
He closes the balcony doors behind him and looks at the suitcases next to the bed. He knows he should unpack. Or call his parents, who are probably already worried sick.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls his phone from his pocket.
No signal. Of course.
He stares at the screen for a moment, then lets his hand drop.
Outside, the ocean keeps roaring, relentless and endless.
Will lies back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and forces himself to breathe.
This is going to be good, he tells himself.
It has to be. Because he doesn’t have anything else left.
And Rosecliff Manor doesn’t feel like a place that gives people second chances.
Mike Wheeler stands at the edge of the terrace with his phone pressed tightly to his ear.
The ocean is loud tonight. It always is, but some days it feels more insistent, like it’s trying to be heard over everything else. The wind pulls at the collar of his coat and sends a shiver down his spine.
"Yes," Mike says, his voice a little impatient at this point. "We’ve already addressed that clause."
On the other end of the line, the lawyer continues speaking, circling the same concerns they’ve been discussing for days. The contract has been revised three times. The author wants additional royalties for foreign rights. The board wants adjustments to the advance. Legal wants indemnity clarified.
It should have been finished yesterday.
"It doesn’t need refinement," Mike says firmly, "It needs a signature."
But the lawyer keeps going. About risks, exposure, liabilities.
Mike closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath.
"We are not delaying this another week," he then says with a finality that doesn't allow any more discussions. "Send the updated draft to my inbox within the hour. I’ll review it tonight. If there’s nothing substantial, we move forward."
He gets a reluctant agreement, but that's all he needs right now.
As the lawyer continues about something else, Mike’s attention drifts for just a second, when movement catches in the corner of his vision.
He turns slightly and lifts his gaze toward the second floor of the staff wing.
Behind one of the balcony doors the sheer white curtains move faintly, as if someone had just closed it. But there’s no one there now.
He looks at it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he forces his focus back to the call.
"Yes," he says, quieter now. "That’s acceptable."
Ten more minutes pass before the conversation finally winds down.
When he ends the call, the silence that follows feels abrupt but the ocean fills it immediately.
He goes back into his office on the second floor, where he lets himself fall back into his chair.
His gaze drifts over the desk, where a few stacks of papers remind him of how much he's still got to take care of. He's been working for most of the day and it still feels like there's no ending in sight.
As he starts to work, time folds in on itself the way it always does when he buries himself deep enough. He answers emails, reviews last months numbers and schedules a call for next week.
He doesn’t even notice that the sky has turned completely dark outside.
It isn’t until there’s a knock on his office door, firm, measured, unmistakable, that he looks up.
"Come in," he calls, setting aside the pen he used to sign a few documents.
Mrs. Sterling steps inside without hesitation, a clipboard tucked neatly beneath her arm.
She begins her report without prompting, just like every day.
"The gardener will be here Thursday. The west hall window has been repaired. Miss Lily’s piano lesson has been rescheduled to Friday afternoon. The pantry inventory has been updated. And the new cook has arrived."
Mike leans back slightly in his chair.
"The new cook," he repeats.
“Yes. Mr. Byers.” Her expression remains composed. "He appears quiet. Polite. Punctual."
Mike nods once. "Sounds good."
She continues through a few more minor updates about deliveries, staffing and repairs. Mike just nods, because he knows she's got it handled. She runs this place with such ease, that it sometimes still surprises Mike. Even though he's seen her do it for his entire life.
Then she closes her clipboard.
"And your daughter is waiting," she adds. "She asked me to remind you that you promised to be on time tonight."
His lips curl up into a small smile.
"Did she, now?"
"Yes, sir."
Mike closes the laptop in front of him. "I’m almost finished."
“Very good," Mrs. Sterling answers and then moves toward the door. She pauses there briefly, as if she's got something else on her mind. But then she steps out and the door closes again behind her.
Mike gathers the last of the documents, signs where needed and sends one final email before leaving his office.
Lily’s room is halfway down the corridor. He knocks lightly before opening it, like always.
"Come in!" her small voice calls from inside.
Mike pushes the door open slowly and finds his daughter sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by plush toys arranged in careful formation around her like a tiny, fuzzy army.
There’s a stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm and a bear positioned like it’s standing guard.
She looks up immediately.
"You’re late," she says. It isn't even an accusation, she's just stating a fact.
Mike steps inside, closing the door gently behind him.
"Barely."
She narrows her eyes at him. "Still late."
He waits for her to move toward the bed and then follows her, sitting on the edge of it. He brushes his fingers through her brown curls. They’re soft and unruly, just like they’ve always been.
"I'm sorry for being barely late," he says lightly.
"You promised," she reminds him and Mike swallows at that.
"I know."
She pouts at him dramatically, and he knows it isn’t entirely real.
"What can I do to make it up to you?"
Her expression changes instantly. The pout vanishes. Her face splits into a wide grin, triumphant and bright. She's got just what she wanted.
She reaches for the book on her nightstand and shoves it into his hands.
The same book like every night. It's worn now and the spine creased from being opened every single night.
"Again?" he asks gently. "Don’t you want something new?"
She shakes her head firmly. "No."
"You must know every word by heart by now."
She crosses her arms over her chest.
"Dad liked it," she says. "And I like it. So you should like it too."
The words hit him like a punch straight to his gut and for a second it's hard to breathe.
His hand tightens slightly on the book, as he forces his voice steady. "I do like it."
She studies him, as if she's trying to decide whether to believe that.
Then she eventually nods, apparently satisfied for now. She tucks herself under the blanket and looks up at him expectantly, already sleepy.
"Where did we stop?" Mike asks.
"Chapter seven."
He flips to the page without looking at the number.
He knows it by heart, too.
He begins reading out loud to her and it doesn't take long for Lily's eyes to grow heavier. By the time he's two pages in, her breathing has evened out and her small hand loosens where it had been gripping the blanket.
He reads another paragraph, just in case.
Then he closes the book carefully and sets it back on the nightstand.
He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead.
"Goodnight," he murmurs.
He switches off the bedside lamp and leaves the room with quiet steps.
The hallway outside feels colder.
For a moment, Mike considers turning back toward his office. Because he knows there's still work waiting for him. There’s always more work to do.
But instead, his steps carry him down the stairs. Back outside.
The wind has quieted somewhat, though the air is still sharp against his skin.
He walks closer to the edge than most people would dare and looks looks out over the ocean.
The waves crash below, relentless and endless.
He stands there, breathing in slowly. Letting the sound fill him. Sometimes it feels like the sea is speaking to him. Not in words, of course, but in rhythm. A constant reminder that things move forward whether he wants them to or not.
After a while, he turns and his gaze drifts upward automatically. It lands on the second floor again, on the same balcony from before. The lights are on now in the room behind it.
He can see movement, the faint outline of someone pacing inside.
Must be the new cook, he thinks.
Mike watches for a second, as if he's waiting for something to happen.
Then he looks away and goes back inside, where the silence of Rosecliff Manor feels heavier than the stone it's built from.