Velvet drapes, the color of bruised wine, hung in long, heavy sheets from ceiling to floor, spilling sunlight in narrow bands across black marble. Gilded trims caught the light in glints of gold, casting faint reflections on the lacquered furniture around him.
Somewhere above, a chandelier sat like a frozen constellation, its crystals unmoving, silent. The air carried a hint of lavender, like a memory someone had tried to preserve too long.
Victor lay there, unmoving.
Eyes half-lidded, caught between sleep and something just shy of it.
The bed beneath him was absurdly comfortable. Too much, honestly—plush and soft in a way that made it feel like it had never truly been slept in. He stared upward, motionless, letting the stillness soak into his skin.
A melody played.
Faint. Distant. Sad in that wordless, ancient kind of way. The tune coiled into the space like a gentle sigh, touching everything with its softness. Something about it hurt. Not sharp. Not loud. Just... hollow, like a missing piece you forgot you lost.
Victor blinked.
His chest rose with a slow breath.
And then, without thinking, his hand reached up and brushed across his eyes.
Wet..
His fingers came away damp, and for a second, he simply stared at them, confused. Then, something shimmered across his vision—tiny digital lines, a flicker in reality itself. The moisture on his fingertips glitched, like static tearing across a screen. Then it burned dark, curling into blackened soot that crumbled and drifted into the air before disappearing.
He blinked again.
And it was gone. His hand looked normal.
He stared at his palm for a second longer. Then shook his head softly, like trying to forget a dream that had overstayed its welcome.
"…Not again," he muttered, voice hoarse from sleep.
Victor stepped off the bed with a practiced ease, his movements were quiet. He pulled on his usual attire with a kind of mechanical grace: black coat, long and swept like falling ash; gloves smoothed over fingers still tingling faintly with remnants of static; boots polished enough to catch the soft light bleeding in through the curtained windows.
He ran a hand through his hair absently as he stepped into the hall.
Silence greeted him.
The corridor stretched long and elegant, lined with tall wooden doors on both sides—nine in total, not counting his own. Each one identical, save for the small silver number etched into the frame. Each one holding its own memory. Or maybe none at all. He wasn't sure. He'd never bothered to check.
Victor paused, casting a glance down the length of the hall.
It felt too large. Like it was built for people no longer here.
He exhaled slowly.
"You've been crying again."
The voice was soft—feathered with warmth, but stitched together with sorrow. Elysia stood just a few steps beside him, her hands clasped behind her back, her pink curls swaying slightly with the stillness of the air. Her smile was gentle, but didn't quite reach her eyes.
Victor didn't look at her directly.
"Yeah," he said, finally. "Guess I have."
Her gaze shifted toward the stairwell, and the melody playing below. "The song is beautiful," she whispered.
He nodded in silence.
Together, they began their descent down the spiral staircase, his footsteps quiet against the lacquered wood. The scent of old stone and soft perfume lingered here too, like it had settled into the bones of the house.
And there—between the twin curves of the staircase that framed the open lounge below—sat Eden.
She was perched on the edge of a grand piano carved from ebony and moonlight, her fingers gliding over the keys with an almost desperate touch.
Her wine red hair was loosely tied back, strands slipping across her cheeks as she swayed slightly with the notes.
But memory.
She played without sheet music. Without looking. Without hesitation.
Eden's fingers danced across the piano keys like ghosts retracing a path they'd walked a thousand times before. Each note trembled with aching restraint—soft, slow, deliberate. A tune carved from memory.
Tears slipped quietly from the corners of her closed eyes, trailing down her cheeks like silent confessions. She didn't wipe them away. She just kept playing.
The melody spoke louder than words.
It told a story.
Of a man who stood alone, backlit by fire. A man who bore the weight of the world with hands not made to hold it. Of a sacrifice so complete, so consuming, that even the memory of his name burned away with the final flame. The chords rose with defiance, fell with grief, echoed with the sound of tears striking the earth—and then faded, note by note, like a candle burning itself out for the sake of warmth.
Victor's breath hitched.
His chest felt too tight, like the air had thickened around him. He stepped forward once, barely a whisper of motion.
"…It's a beautiful song," he said softly. "What is it?"
Eden's fingers slowed. The last note lingered, quivering in the air like the sigh of a dying star.
Then silence.
She opened her eyes—those calm, radiant gold eyes, dulled only by the sorrow etched at their edges. Her voice, when it came, was low.
"…Just a song I love," she said. Then, after a breath, "And regret."
Victor stood still, unsure whether to approach or retreat. But Eden crossed the space for him, her movements quiet and sure, like a performer walking off the last scene of a play no one applauded.
She reached for him—delicately. Her fingers brushed his collar, adjusting the angle of his coat with the ease of someone who had done it many times before.
Then, without ceremony, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Not romantic.
Not sad.
Just something that felt like a goodbye said too many times.
"Go on," she whispered with a smile that didn't hide the red in her eyes. "You'll be late."
Victor exhaled. A quiet, helpless laugh escaped him—low and tired.
He just nodded once… and walked away.
The doors creaked shut behind him with a soft, echoing thud—muting the golden light of morning that had slipped across the marble like spilled warmth. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.
Eden stood alone in the hollow of it.
A breath left her lips, not quite a sob, but too fragile to be just a sigh. Her heels clicked softly as she stepped forward, one hand brushing against the edge of the piano. Her fingers curled faintly over the ivory keys, but she didn't press them.
A voice broke the silence from above.
"…You're just like us," a voice scoffed, her voice trailing like smoke from the upper railings.
Eden didn't look up. She didn't need to.
Mobius stood with one arm leaning against the banister, her other hand curled into a fist at her side. Her eyes, always cold, always sharp—now shimmered faintly. A single tear clung to the edge like it didn't know where to fall.
"…Am I a bad person," Eden whispered, her voice almost too soft to reach the second floor, "for wanting him back, but also… wanting him to not get hurt anymore?"
Mobius didn't answer immediately. Her mouth twitched. Then curled again into a scoff—not quite amused. Not quite angry.
"…He'd say we're hurting him if we ignore our happiness," she muttered, barely audible, before turning and vanishing down the hallway.
Eden stared at the empty space she left behind for a long moment. Then turned back to the piano.
Her fingers found the keys again.
A melody of an untold story echoed once again in the empty halls.
===========================
Heya, Everyone! HundredMasks-chan here~
this is the first Chapter Made after Dear Calvinomega's comment Revitalized the Dear Author's Spirit! and here's a message from the beloved Author~
"thanks for the comments that expressed their support. They gave me the push to continue this universe and I hope more of you will love it as much as I do"
As always, feel free to- no! I Beg you to comment! have a nice day!