He spent his entire life complaining that there was never enough time, never enough silence and never enough stillness. It wasn't til his death that we found out why he'd always been so fixated on these things, why he lived and died in the attic that he forbid us from ever entering.
When we saw his research, the subjects he'd used and caught our first glimpses of all the things he'd been protecting us from, we desperately wished he'd let us help him. At first I didn't know why he refused to trust us but that quickly changed when a few cousins came to our home late at night, asking questions about things we'd only ever seen in his old notebooks.
They may have been our cousin's bodes but they were being worn like a fresh puppeteer wears a character - sloppy, uncoordinated and saying all the wrong things at the wrong times. They'd finish our sentences before we could, having come close enough to grasp at the edges of our minds just his journals warned they would.
His attic was the only place their powers couldn't reach and so we made it our new home, leaving the rest of the estate to fall into their hands until we could figure out a way to expand the protections he'd put into place - picking up his research with the fervour of zealots.
It's been thirty-odd years since then and we''re not closer than he was.
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