Elena's POV
I stared at the words I'd just written in my notebook, my hand still shaking.
"Dear A: I found your letter. I don't know who you are or when you wrote this, but I'm reading it now, and you're not alone anymore. I don't know if you'll ever see this, but I wanted you to know—your words mattered. They reached someone. They reached me. —E"
This was insane. I was writing to a dead person. Or a crazy person. Or maybe I was the crazy one.
But something about that letter—847 years alone—made my broken heart ache for someone else besides myself. At least I'd only lost everything six months ago. This person had been suffering for centuries.
I carefully tore the page from my notebook and placed it in the music box's hidden compartment, right where I'd found the original letter. My fingers brushed the old paper again, and another vision flashed—
A man's hand, writing by candlelight. His face hidden in shadow. The desperate loneliness radiating from him like heat.
I yanked my hand back, breathing hard.
"What's wrong with me?" I whispered to the empty château.
The music box sat silent on the dusty table, keeping its secrets.
I took a photo of it with my camera, then forced myself to leave. The train back to Paris felt like it took forever. The whole time, that letter burned in my mind.
847 years.
Impossible. Had to be impossible.
But my gift had never lied to me before. When I touched objects, I saw their true history. And that letter felt old in a way that made my bones cold.
By the time I stumbled back to Margot's apartment, it was almost midnight. I was soaked again—it had started raining—and exhausted to my core.
Margot opened the door before I could knock.
"You found it," she said. Not a question. A statement.
I stared at her. "How did you know there was something to find?"
She pulled me inside, thrust a bowl of soup into my hands, and sat me down at her tiny kitchen table. "Eat first. Talk after."
"Margot—"
"Eat."
I was too tired to argue. The soup was warm and perfect and tasted like childhood—like the kitchen at the mansion before everything went wrong. I didn't realize I was crying until tears dripped into the bowl.
"I can't do this anymore," I whispered. "I can't keep pretending I'm okay. I lost everything, Margot. My business, my home, my family. Julian and Céleste took it all, and everyone just... let them. Like I didn't matter. Like six years of building the restoration business meant nothing. Like I was nothing."
Margot's chair scraped as she moved closer. Her arms wrapped around me, and I collapsed into her shoulder like I used to when I was eight years old and my parents died in that car crash.
"You're stronger than you know," she murmured, stroking my hair. "Stronger than all of them combined."
"I don't feel strong. I feel broken."
"Broken things can be fixed," she said softly. "You taught me that. Remember? When I broke your grandmother's antique vase and thought I'd be fired? You spent three months restoring it, piece by piece. You said broken doesn't mean worthless."
"That was different—"
"No, it wasn't." She pulled back, gripping my shoulders. "You are a Moreau, Elena. The gift runs in your blood whether your grandmother admits it or not. You can see the truth in objects. You can sense their history. That's not madness. That's power."
I shook my head. "Even if that's true, what good does it do me? I'm broke, Margot. My landlord is throwing my stuff out tomorrow. I have nowhere to go except your couch, and I can't keep taking advantage of—"
"You stay as long as you need," Margot said firmly. "This is your home now."
The kindness broke something in me. I cried harder, all the pain I'd been holding in for six months pouring out. Margot just held me and let me break.
Eventually, exhaustion won. She helped me to the tiny spare room—barely bigger than a closet—and tucked a blanket around me like I was a child.
"Sleep," she whispered. "Tomorrow is Saturday. Go back to the château. Something tells me your letter won't stay unanswered."
"That's impossible," I mumbled, already half-asleep. "No one could find it. No one even knows—"
"Sleep, mon cœur. Trust me."
I woke to my phone buzzing. Sunlight streamed through the small window. For a moment, I forgot where I was, forgot everything that had happened.
Then reality crashed back. No home. No money. No family.
The phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number:
The château will be demolished Monday morning instead of Saturday. Thought you'd want to know. You have 48 hours. —A Friend
My heart stopped.
How did anyone know I'd been to the château? I'd told no one except—
Margot stood in the doorway, holding coffee. "You're awake. Good. The train to Verlaine leaves in an hour."
"How did you—"
"I didn't send that text, if that's what you're asking." Her eyes sparkled with something I couldn't name. "But I told you, didn't I? Something's waiting for you there."
I grabbed my jacket and camera, my mind racing. This was crazy. All of it.
But forty minutes later, I was on the train, watching Paris disappear behind me.
The château looked different in daylight. Less ghostly, more sad. A beautiful old lady waiting to die.
I ran up to the third floor, my footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The music box sat exactly where I'd left it.
With trembling hands, I opened the hidden compartment.
My letter was gone.
In its place was a new one, written in that same elegant handwriting:
"E—You wrote back. In 847 years, no one has ever written back. I don't know how you found my letter. I don't know why you answered. But your words gave me something I thought I'd lost forever: hope. Meet me. Please. I know this sounds impossible, but I need to see the person who sees me. Saturday midnight. Pont des Arts bridge. I'll be wearing a grey coat. I'll wait for you. —A"
My hands shook so hard the paper rattled.
This was impossible. Completely impossible.
But at the bottom of the letter, pressed into the paper like it had been placed there yesterday, was a single white rose petal.
And when my fingers touched it, the vision that exploded through my mind made me gasp:
A man standing on a bridge in the dark. Ancient eyes in a young face. Waiting. Hoping. Desperate and lonely and so heartbreakingly sad that I felt his pain like my own.
The vision faded. I stood frozen in the dusty château, holding a letter from someone who claimed to be immortal.
Someone who wanted to meet me.
Someone who, if my gift was right, was telling the impossible truth.