The air was still.
Not quiet—but still, like the house was holding its breath.
Aanya's fingers trembled as she pushed the rusted gates open, ivy wrapping around them like a warning. The hinges groaned, not in protest, but in remembrance—like they had opened once before and regretted it ever since.
She stepped through.
The estate stood like a shadow of itself—chipped, cracked, draped in fog. The Withered House. That's what the villagers called it now. No one crossed its borders. No one spoke its name at night.
Not since her aunt vanished.
She hadn't planned to return. Not to this cursed land. Not after the fire. Not after what she saw when she was seven.
But the letter had found her.
"You are the last. The House will wait no longer."
Inside, the hall was silent—but not empty. Dust curled around her boots, and above her, the chandelier hung like a crown of bones. Paintings lined the walls. Each face was blurred, scratched out by time—or by someone who couldn't bear to remember.
And then came the voice.
A whisper—low, feminine, brittle as dried roses:
"You look just like her."
Aanya turned sharply.
Nothing. Just her shadow and a flickering candle by the broken mirror. But her skin buzzed. Not from fear.
From recognition.
She climbed the staircase she hadn't dared touch in years. Each step creaked like it remembered her weight. Her childhood.
And her secret.
Room 13. The one that was always locked. The one she wasn't supposed to enter.
The one where she saw her aunt touch that thing in the mirror… before she disappeared.
Now, the door stood ajar.
She stepped in.
The scent of old jasmine and ash choked the air. A single photograph sat on the table. Her aunt—smiling. And behind her... a man Aanya had never seen.
Veiled eyes. Bare chest. A symbol burned into his skin.
She reached for it—
And the door slammed shut behind her.
"He touched her again."
The whisper came from the wall.
"He wasn't supposed to. She was the last offering."
Her hand flew to her chest. The mirror in the room pulsed with light—not reflection. Not glass. It breathed.
And in its flickering surface, Aanya saw something.
A forbidden touch. A blood-marked kiss. A blade. A scream.
Her aunt's face—eyes wide, hands reaching out toward Aanya.
Then darkness.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She turned.
A man stood in the doorway. Silent. Broad-shouldered. Wild eyes. Dressed in forest green, with dirt on his collar and a quiet storm in his gaze.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
He looked at the mirror, then at her.
Then whispered:
"You shouldn't have come back, Aanya. The house remembers everything."
And just like that… the whispers began again.
Do comment shadowhearts for CHAPTER 1
—ZARA @VEXINK🔥🕯️👑✨