5 minutes of Freedom

0.Prologue

Disclaimer-

Every word here was written with intent.
If it finds a place in you, let it stay there-
not under another name. Thank you for understanding.

In the far stretch of Wrightfield, where the land rolled gently into quiet hills and the wind carried whispers of distant seas, stood the Rottenshau estate-vast, imposing, and far too grand for the silence it held.

It had not always been so.

The Rottenshau mansion rose at its heart-an imposing structure of pale stone and tall, narrow windows that seemed to watch more than they welcomed.

Ivy clung to its outer walls, softening its edges but not its presence.

Inside, long corridors stretched beneath high ceilings, lined with portraits that followed one's passage in silence.

Grand chandeliers hung heavy with candlelight, casting a warm glow that never quite reached the corners.

It was a house built for grandeur-yet it carried its silence like a burden, as though something within it had long been left unsaid.

The estate was once alive with celebration. Its halls had echoed with voices, its gardens with laughter. All of it owed to one man-Mr.

Rottenshau-who had carved his name into the annals of war with steel, strategy, and an unrelenting will.

For his victories, he was granted more than medals. He was granted land.
Wrightfield.

A title followed soon after.
Baron.

But wars, like the tides, do not recede for long.

And so, the Baron remained absent more often than present-his victories continuing far from home, while the estate he built slowly forgot the sound of his footsteps.

In his absence, the house belonged to her.

Mrs. Rottenshau.

She was not what one would expect of cruelty.

There was no crooked spine, no harsh lines carved by bitterness. No outward sign that warned of what lay beneath.

She was young.

Beautiful.

Composed.

Her presence commanded attention, not fear-at least, not at first glance.

But beauty, as it often does, concealed more than it revealed.

Where warmth should have lived, there was calculation.

Where kindness might have softened a word, there was precision instead-sharp, deliberate, and often wounding.

And in the quiet corners of that grand estate, her influence settled like a slow, unyielding frost.

Among the servants, among the routines, among the countless tasks that stitched each day together, lived a boy.

Timothee Hamilton.

He did not belong to the house-not truly.

Not by name.
Not by blood that was ever acknowledged.

He existed somewhere in between.

Neither family nor servant.
Neither guest nor stranger.

Just... present.

He was a quiet boy.

Tall for his age, though lean to the point of fragility, as if the world had taken more from him than it had ever given.

His movements were careful, measured-not out of grace, but out of habit.

The habit of not drawing attention.

His eyes-hazel brown, dim in their resting state-held a quiet warmth when they caught the light.

But that warmth was fleeting, often hidden behind lowered gazes and unfinished words.

He spoke rarely.

Not because he lacked thought-but because he had learned, early and thoroughly, that thoughts were safer when kept to oneself.

There were whispers, of course.

There always are.

That he had been taken in out of obligation.

That he was the remnant of a past better left unspoken.

That the Baron had reasons no one dared question.

A bastard. A bastard they believed him to be.

It was the easiest explanation of Mrs Rottenshau's spiteful behaviour towards him.

Tim never asked.

And no one ever told him.

The attic became his world.

A small, forgotten space beneath the roof, where dust gathered undisturbed and silence was not imposed, but natural.

There, he found something rare.

Time.

Moments where he was not watched. Not corrected. Not reminded.

Moments where he could read.

Pages borrowed long ago from the Baron's library-quiet acts of kindness that had gone unnoticed by most, but not by Tim.

Words became his refuge.

And slowly, though he never realized it, they became his voice.

Below, the estate continued its rhythm.

Orders given.

Tasks completed.

Days passing with quiet efficiency.

And above it all, unseen and unremarked-a boy learned to exist without expectation.

Without demand.

Without the need to be noticed.

Until the day the winds shifted.

Until new footsteps entered the grounds.

Until, for the first time-

someone looked up.

And saw him.