2025-08-26 16:40:13Morning sunlight didn’t quite reach the east wing.
The curtains had been drawn open, and the windows faced a perfect view of the garden hedge maze beyond the estate—but still, everything in Lana’s room felt dim. The light didn’t settle. It hovered, uncertain. Much like her thoughts. She had hardly slept. Dreams had come in waves—children laughing in rooms she didn’t recognize, lullabies echoing off stone walls, and firelight flashing across a man’s face she couldn’t place. Grey’s words replayed on a loop. They’ve erased everything. Only together will they remember. She’d almost told him about the second girl in the mirror. The one who looked like her. But something stopped her. Fear, maybe. Or the growing suspicion that everything she remembered had been edited. The sound of footsteps outside her door snapped her from her thoughts. A knock. Sharp. Measured. Lana slipped out of bed and opened it cautiously. A woman stood in the hallway—a vision of poise. Early forties, maybe. Iron-gray hair swept into a bun. Perfect posture. Crisp black-and-white uniform without a single wrinkle. She offered a tight-lipped smile. “Miss Rey. Forgive the intrusion. Breakfast is ready, and Mr. Thompson asked me to personally see to your comfort this morning.” Lana hesitated. “You’re…?” “Miss Evangeline Ward,” the woman said. “Housekeeper. I run the interior of the estate.” “You weren’t here yesterday.” “No,” she said simply. “I arrived late last night.” Her eyes didn’t blink enough. Lana noticed that instantly. “Follow me,” Miss Ward said, already turning down the hall. Lana had no choice but to obey. As they walked through the corridor, Lana’s gaze lingered on the framed paintings—portraits of unfamiliar ancestors. All proud, cold eyes and tight collars. They all looked like they’d kept too many secrets. Miss Ward walked in silence. No unnecessary chatter. No glance over the shoulder to check if Lana was following. Just steady clicks of her heels across the marble. “You’ve lived here long?” Lana asked, if only to fill the silence. “I’ve served the Thompson family for eighteen years,” she replied without turning. “Long enough to know the rhythm of this house. When it breathes. When it holds its breath.” That choice of words made Lana uneasy. They turned into a sitting room—modest by estate standards, but still grand. A table set for two. Fine china. A silver dome covering warm dishes. “You may wait here,” Miss Ward said. “Mr. Thompson will join you shortly.” But she didn’t leave. She lingered in the doorway, eyes scanning the shelves like she was taking inventory of things that weren’t hers. Lana cleared her throat. “You said you arrived late last night. Did you see anything… unusual?” A slight twitch at the corner of the housekeeper’s mouth. Almost a smirk. “The estate is old,” she said. “Old places hold echoes. Most of them harmless.” “That wasn’t an answer.” “I’ve learned that questions can be more dangerous than answers, Miss Rey. Especially in this house.” Lana frowned. “Why would a housekeeper care what I ask?” Miss Ward finally looked at her then. Her eyes were the color of overcast skies. “I care,” she said softly, “because not every girl who walks into this estate walks out again.” Silence. Heavy. Unwelcome. Then she smiled. Too smoothly. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine, though,” she added, as if that erased what had just been said. Before Lana could speak again, Miss Ward stepped back into the hall and closed the door. Lana stood frozen. The silence in the room didn’t feel natural. It felt arranged. Her eyes flicked to the bookshelves. She wandered closer. Rows of leather-bound volumes lined the shelves, all dusted, none disturbed. All except one—a slim book with no title, its spine cracked and faded. She pulled it out. It was blank. At first. Then, as she flipped toward the middle, ink began to bleed through the page. As if the words were only now appearing. She watches through mirrors. She waits behind doors. She never left. Lana dropped the book. The air in the room shifted. The fireplace hissed softly—no flame. Just the sound of coals breathing. The silver dome on the breakfast tray began to tremble slightly. A subtle, rhythmic clink. Lana stepped forward and slowly lifted the cover. Nothing inside. Just an envelope. Cream paper. Gold seal. Her name written across the front in the same handwriting she had seen on the mirror. Lana. She reached for it, fingers trembling—when the door behind her creaked open. She turned sharply—expecting Grey. But it was Miss Ward again. Expression unchanged. “You haven’t touched your food,” she said mildly. “There’s an envelope here,” Lana said. “With my name. Who—” But when she turned back, the tray was empty again. No dome. No envelope. Just a single spoon resting neatly on the napkin, like it had always been that way. Miss Ward’s smile didn’t falter. “I think perhaps,” she said, “you’re still adjusting to the house.” “I’m not hallucinating.” “No,” said Miss Ward. “You’re remembering.” She stepped back. “And that,” she added with a cold sweetness, “is far more dangerous.” The door closed again behind her. And this time, Lana locked it.
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Chapter Eighty — What Remains of Us
By morning, the rain had thinned to a mist that clung to the trees like breath. The world outside the cabin was a blur of gray and green, silent except for the dripping of water through leaves. Grey hadn’t slept. Lana could tell by the way he stood at the window, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the fog. The torn page from Seraphine’s letter lay on the table between them — five words that had rearranged everything they thought they knew. You’re looking in the wrong fire. Lana rose quietly, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “You’ve been standing there for hours,” she said. Grey didn’t look away. “I keep thinking about the timeline. If Seraphine’s right — if there was another fire — then the one that killed my mother might’ve been staged. Everything since might’ve been built on that lie.” “She’s baiting you,” Lana said softly. “Or warning you. I can’t tell which.” He finally turned, eyes shadowed but alert. “There’s an old Thompson site north of here — a textile property. It b
Chapter Seventy Nine – The Warning
By morning, the storm had drained itself into a gray, exhausted drizzle. Grey was already dressed when Lana opened her eyes. The ledger lay closed on the table, wrapped once more in its oilcloth, as if putting it away could undo what it had revealed. “I need to go back,” he said simply. “There’s someone who might know more. My uncle’s assistant — Harlan. He handled Foundation correspondence.” Lana sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “You think he’ll tell you the truth?” “I think he’ll slip up trying not to.” He left before she could argue, leaving only the faint smell of rain on his coat and the soft creak of the door. For hours, the cabin held its silence. Lana made tea that went cold before she ever tasted it. The ledger tempted her like a wound — impossible not to reopen. She turned the pages again, tracing the names. Some entries were marked lost in incident. Others had no endings at all. One entry, written in rushed ink, simply read: Subject relocated – location
Chapter Seventy Eight - The Ledger
The lamp had gone out sometime after midnight, leaving the hut soaked in blue-black quiet. Lana lay awake, eyes open to the faint glow leaking through the window slats. Every creak of timber felt amplified, every breath heavy with thought. Grey hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. But she knew he wasn’t asleep. He never was, not when his mind was circling the past like a wolf around a wound. She turned her head toward him. “Do you ever think,” she murmured, “that some things survive just to haunt us?” Grey’s answer was low, rasped, almost lost to the dark. “Every day.” It wasn’t a confession. It was a truth scraped raw. Silence stretched — long, heavy, pulsing with the echo of the stranger’s warning still alive in her skull: Don’t trust him fully. It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have sounded so believable. Finally, Grey pushed himself upright. His outline cut against the faint glow of the dying embers. “There’s something you should see,” he said quietly. He rose, cross
Chapter Seventy-Seven — The Night Watch
The sound of Lana’s breathing steadied before it softened. Grey waited a while longer to be sure.The lamp had gone out completely now, leaving only the dim light of the moon spilling through the window — a thin, colorless wash across the floorboards. He sat where he was, on the low chair near the hearth, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely, listening to the quiet.Outside, the wind had eased. A faint drip of melting snow ticked against the eaves. The kind of silence that came after long violence — too still to be trusted.He should have slept. He knew that. But his body had long forgotten how.He turned his gaze toward her — the narrow rise and fall of her shoulders under the blanket, the faint line of her jaw in the half-dark. Even in sleep, she looked tense, her fingers curled into the fabric as though bracing for something.He exhaled slowly.Don’t trust him fully.The words had hit her hard. He’d seen it in her eyes — the flash of fear, the betrayal she tried to hide. He c
Chapter Seventy-Six – Ash Between Us
The wind had died down by the time Grey shut the door, but the cold clung to the seams of the little hut. The paper bag he’d brought—bread, two tins, and a thermos—sat forgotten on the table between them.Lana hadn’t moved since he came in. The card still lay near her, charred around the edges, the faint trace of smoke curling from it as though reluctant to leave.Grey crouched beside her, studying the floorboards, the shadows, the corners. He didn’t touch her. “Whoever it was,” he said quietly, “they knew how to get this close without leaving a sound.”Lana nodded numbly. Her hands were stiff, her knuckles white against her knees. “He didn’t break in. He just… stood there. Like he knew I’d wake.”Grey’s gaze flicked to her. “He?”She hesitated. “I think so. His voice was low, soft. He said…” Her throat closed. The words still felt too heavy, too strange. Don’t trust him fully.Grey didn’t push. He stood slowly, arms folded, his profile sharp against the flicker of lamplight. “And the
Chapter Seventy-Five: Shadows Don’t Burn
The silence after the storm had its own kind of violence.Grey set the paper bag down on the counter — a simple, ordinary thing, the smell of coffee and bread spilling into the cold air. But nothing about the moment felt ordinary anymore.Lana was still standing by the table, the edges of the burned card singeing her palm. She didn’t look at him when she spoke. “I didn’t see his face,” she said softly. “He was gone before I could—”Grey was already moving toward the window, scanning the treeline beyond the frost-glazed glass. “How long ago?”“Minutes,” she murmured. “Maybe less.”He turned back to her, his expression sharpening into that unreadable calm he wore when danger brushed too close. It wasn’t fear she saw in him — it was calculation.“He left this?” Grey asked, nodding toward the card in her hand.Lana hesitated before holding it out. The words were nearly gone, the ink burned at the edges. Grey’s fingers brushed hers as he took it — a small contact that sent her nerves sting
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