4141.222 · August 10, 1821 AD
The Weight of Nothing Found
There's a particular weight to returning from a search without what you sought. Stars overhead, lanterns casting shadows, boots heavy with accumulated mud and failure. The manor blazes with desperate light—every window a small act of defiance against the darkness pressing close. On the steps, they wait: the pale wife, the calculating friend, the anxious household. All watching for something the constable cannot provide. Sometimes the absence of answers weighs more than their presence.
Night has claimed the sky by the time they emerge from the tree line. The search party moves in loose formation, lanterns held high, each man carrying the particular exhaustion that comes from effort without result. Broadmoor's uniform tells the story of their day—earth stains, bark dust, stream water still clinging to fabric.
Behind him, Gilchrist and Pyke move with the weight of knowledge they wish they didn't possess. The gamekeeper's haunted expression has nothing to do with physical weariness. The blacksmith's jaw sets with stubborn refusal to accept what seems increasingly inevitable.
The manor waits, ablaze with light that feels almost accusatory. On the steps: Madelyn Jeffries, pale and rigid. Victoria Ashford, sharp-eyed and calculating. Mrs Harrington, keys jangling with anxious rhythm. Thomas Whitfield maintaining composure that barely holds. Young William at an upper window, face pressed to glass, watching for a father who won't return.
Broadmoor removes his hat. The gesture feels inadequate against the magnitude of what he must say. His notebook sits heavy in his pocket, filled with evidence that raises more questions than it answers.
They have searched every inch. Followed every trail. Examined every shadow.
And found nothing but mysteries that refuse to resolve into certainty.
