Linh Nguyet couldn't sleep.
Ever since she passed out in Luc Trac's room, something inside her had begun to stir. Fragmented dreams, distant sobs echoing through the night, and that haunting sense of familiarity whenever his gaze fell upon her.
She was beginning to fear… she wasn't just a bystander.
The next morning, rain poured heavily from the grey skies.
Thunder grumbled in the distance, like a voice calling out from far away. She sat in the living room, cradling an old photo album she had found tucked away on a dusty shelf. The edges were chewed by mice, the pages yellowed with time. She flipped through them slowly, page by page—until one photograph made her freeze in place.
A black-and-white photo. Taken in front of the mansion.
A young woman in a white dress stood beside… Luc Trac.
He looked younger, less cold than he did now. The girl held his hand, smiling brightly. And he… looked at her with a gentleness Linh Nguyet had never seen from him.
That girl looked exactly like her.
No — not just similar. It was her.
Hands trembling, she turned the photo over. A faded line of ink was scrawled on the back:
"April 14 — Nguyet's birthday."
Her mind went blank.
Why was her name there?
How could she appear in a photograph taken decades before she was even born?
That night, the rain fell in sheets.
She lay in bed, heart racing. She knew he was near — her instincts screamed it. And then, just as she expected, footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Thump… Thump…
The door creaked open.
He stood there — Luc Trac — the same haunting figure. But tonight, something had changed. His eyes no longer carried cold indifference. Instead, they held a longing — one that had been buried for too long.
"Who… are you really?" she asked, voice trembling.
He didn't answer right away. He approached her slowly, stopping just inches away. His gaze bore into hers like it could pierce through her soul.
"You once promised me," he murmured, "that you'd stay with me forever."
"But… I've never met you before."
He tilted his head, smiling faintly.
"Then let me help you remember."
He placed a hand on her forehead — so cold it burned.
Suddenly, a blinding pain tore through her mind.
She was standing in a garden bathed in crimson sunset.
Wearing a white dress. Holding a bouquet of wildflowers. And he — Luc Trac — sat at an old piano nearby, playing a soft, wistful tune. She walked toward him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and whispered:
"Don't leave me."
He turned, eyes filled with love.
"I promise."
And just as she smiled — everything turned to blood.
Screams. Explosions. Flames engulfed the scene. She was pulled away. A hand tried to hold onto her — but was torn apart.
She fell…
And everything went black.
She jolted awake, gasping.
Her forehead was drenched in sweat. Luc Trac was gone.
In her palm, she clutched something tightly: a silver necklace with a crescent moon pendant — something she had never seen before, yet somehow felt painfully familiar.
She remembered now — she had worn it in the dream.
The next morning, she confronted the butler.
For the first time, he met her gaze. No more avoidance. No more silence.
She asked, her voice cracking:
"Who… am I?"
He was quiet for a long time. Then, at last, he spoke:
"You are the one who died in this house."