The wrought–iron gates of the Moore manor loomed before Ryan, black against the fading sky. His hand hesitated on the latch. Eight years. Eight years since he'd last crossed this threshold, since the night everything shifted and silence rooted itself inside Gemma like a second soul. The world beyond had changed, but here… here the air felt unnervingly still.
The fountain at the entrance, once flowing with clear water and coins that shimmered like promises, was nothing but a cracked basin, dust settled in its hollow. The ivy that crawled the walls clung desperately, as if it too feared to let go of the past.
Stepping inside, Ryan was struck by how little had changed. The polished marble floor reflected the chandelier's light, portraits still lined the walls—smiling faces locked in another era. It was as if time had obeyed the family's wish to stay frozen.
Lucy and George greeted him with smiles stretched too wide, too polished. Their voices were warm, polite, almost celebratory, as though nothing had happened. No silence. No scars. No missing years. Ryan forced himself to return their greetings, though unease coiled in his chest.
"Ryan," George said, clasping his shoulder, "it's been far too long. The manor has missed you."
Had it? Ryan wondered. Or had it been waiting for him?
Before he could answer, footsteps creaked on the grand staircase. Ryan's gaze lifted—and collided with hers.
Gemma.
She paused mid-step, her hair catching the light, her eyes locked on him with an intensity that pinned him where he stood. Cold, unreadable, sharp as shattered glass. For a moment, Ryan forgot how to breathe. Those eyes were the same as the ones in his dreams—the ones he'd been trying to forget.
Her expression did not shift. No recognition, no greeting, only that steady, icy stare. She descended silently, passing him without a word, without a sound, yet leaving his chest hollowed out, as if she'd taken something with her.
"Ryan," Gabriel's voice snapped him back, tugging at his sleeve, "come on." His twin pulled him upstairs with a kind of urgency, as though afraid Ryan might drift away into her shadow.
Once in the bedroom, Gabriel shut the door harder than necessary. He turned, arms crossed.
"You keep staring at her."
Ryan blinked, caught off guard.
"I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were." Gabriel stepped closer, his voice low. "Why? What is it you see in her that no one else does?"
Ryan looked away, his throat tightening. There were no words he could offer—none that wouldn't unravel him.
Gabriel held his stare for a long moment, then sighed, shaking his head as if brushing it off, but the suspicion lingered in his eyes.
Later, in the guest room, Ryan lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The manor was silent except for the faint ticking of the old clock in the hall. His mind replayed Gemma's eyes, colder than ice, deeper than memory.
"She hasn't changed," he whispered into the emptiness. "Not at all…"
And as the night deepened, the weight of the past pressed harder against him, a truth clawing its way out.