The car arrived at exactly 11:57 PM.
It was matte black and silent, the kind of vehicle that didn't need to announce itself. The driver wore no expression, no name tag, no words. Aria climbed in anyway — her instincts clawing at her, warning her to run.
But curiosity is a powerful thing. Especially when it feels like fate.
They drove without speaking, deeper into the city's forgotten edges. The streets grew narrower. Streetlights gave way to shadows. And finally, trees — tall, gnarled, ancient things — swallowed the road.
At midnight, the gates of the Morvain Estate creaked open like something exhaling after centuries of sleep.
The mansion loomed ahead, carved from dark stone and time itself. Ivy strangled its windows. Towers rose into the mist. And overhead, the blood moon glowed — full and red, casting the grounds in shades of rust and ruin.
Aria stepped out of the car. Gravel crunched beneath her boots. The air smelled of ash, iron, and something floral — roses, maybe. Dried ones.
Lucien Morvain stood at the door. Again, dressed in black. Again, too still.
"Welcome," he said.
She didn't speak.
Because the moment her foot crossed the threshold, something shifted.
The air inside was wrong. Thick, charged, almost humming with memory.
Paintings lined the walls — unnamed faces with eyes that seemed to follow. Candles burned, despite no breeze. And the chandelier above swayed ever so slightly, though nothing moved.
The silence wasn't empty. It was listening.
Lucien led her down a corridor lit by lanterns and lined with mirrors, each one fogged or cracked. She caught glimpses of herself, but the reflections lagged — like her body had already walked past, but her soul was still catching up.
A flash — a girl in white, walking barefoot down the same hall. Her gown trailing ash.Her reflection turns to look at her and smiles — even though she didn't.Aria gasps.
She stumbled. Lucien caught her arm gently.
"This place… it's like it remembers me," she whispered.
Lucien's eyes softened. "It does."
He brought her to the library — if you could call it that.
It was a cathedral of books. Shelves reached three stories high. Spiral staircases twisted up into darkness. Candles flickered along the edges. And in the center stood a long oak table — already set with parchment, tools… and a small stack of velvet-wrapped volumes.
"These are the marked ones," he said. "The rest… will come later."
She approached the stack carefully. Her fingers hovered over the top book.
Before she could touch it, Lucien murmured, "Be careful."
"Why?"
He didn't smile. "Because some of them remember your hands."
Her eyes snapped to his.
"What is this place, really?"
He didn't answer. Just said:
"Rest here. Tomorrow, you begin. The room upstairs is yours."
Alone that night in the guest chamber — all velvet curtains and cold glass — Aria couldn't sleep. The moon glared through the high windows. The house creaked like it was stretching, or sighing.
She lit a candle and returned to the book stack in the library.
She unwrapped the top one. It was bound in red leather, cracked with age. The clasp popped open by itself.
Inside, the title page read:
Property of A. Voss – 1893
Her breath hitched.
The handwriting was hers. Not just similar — identical.
She flipped to the first page.
DIARY ENTRY – February 28th, 1893
They brought me to the house today.The moment I crossed the threshold,
I felt it — a pull beneath my skin.The mirrors knew my name.The books whispered it.
And he was there. Waiting. Always waiting.Lucien Morvain.Eyes like winter and hands that lied.
I told myself I came for the job.But I think I came to remember.
Something terrible happened in this house.And I think I did it.
A wind rushed through the room, though no windows were open.
The candle flickered violently.
And just behind her, in the reflection of the library's tall glass doors,a shadow passed.
But when Aria turned —no one was there.