The next morning was cold, silent, and unusually still—like the world was holding its breath. Lena stood in the kitchen, clutching a mug of instant coffee she'd managed to warm over a candle. She hadn't slept, not really. Her dreams were filled with fragments of memories that weren't hers—faces she didn't recognize, a battlefield soaked in fog, a woman crying near a train station, a man's voice whispering her name.
And always, Julian.
She sat on the edge of the worn-down velvet sofa, eyes fixed on the staircase leading up to the attic. She hadn't dared go there yet. But after what he said—"I've been waiting for you."—she knew that whatever answers he couldn't or wouldn't give were likely hiding in that attic.
After breakfast, she found the attic key inside an old grandfather clock behind a loose panel. As if someone wanted it to be found... but only by someone who belonged here.
The stairs creaked beneath her feet as she climbed. Dust danced in the slivers of light that broke through the cracks in the roof. The door to the attic was heavy, the key rusty, but it turned with a click.
Inside, the attic smelled of cedar, decay, and time.
There were trunks everywhere, covered in cloth, and furniture stacked like forgotten memories. A phonograph stood silently in the corner, and beside it, an easel draped with a thick velvet sheet.
Lena approached it, her breath shallow.
She pulled the cloth away slowly.
A gasp escaped her lips.
It was a painting—aged, oil on canvas—but still vivid. It depicted a woman who looked exactly like her, dressed in 1910s fashion, seated on a stone bench beneath a blooming tree. Her expression was soft, wistful. A man stood behind her, a gentle hand resting on her shoulder.
Julian.
Lena staggered back. It wasn't just a resemblance. It was her.
She touched the bottom of the frame.
There, written in elegant gold script, were the words:
> Julian & Liora – Spring, 1916
Liora.
The name echoed in her mind like a forgotten song.
That night, she sat on the floor of the attic, staring at the portrait. The painting stirred something inside her—grief, yearning, recognition. She had never seen this place before, and yet she could name the tree, smell the spring air, feel Julian's presence behind her.
A memory not her own... and yet deeply hers.
She lit a candle and whispered to the room. "Julian... if this is real... tell me. Who is Liora?"
The candle flickered violently. Then he appeared.
He stood beside the painting now, not her bed.
"She was you," he said softly.
Lena's heart thudded. "What?"
"You are her... reborn."
Julian walked toward her, every step slow, careful, as though he was trying not to frighten her. "I thought I was cursed to watch the world pass me by. I remained in this house, unable to move on, because the promise I made was never fulfilled. I told Liora I would return. And I never did."
"You said you were waiting for me," she whispered. "But I'm not her. I'm Lena."
"You are... and you aren't. The soul remembers what the mind does not."
She stared at him. "Then why now? Why