"The wind hums secrets through the lattice of trees, silver leaves trembling, caught between hush and hush.

Footsteps echo softer than a dream, louder than silence, pulling me forward, pressing me back.

Moonlight clings to my skin like a lover's sigh, cool, knowing, relentless in its touch.
The night is not dark-it shimmers, it waits,
a veil of stars, a web spun from longing.

Somewhere beyond, unseen hands weave my fate, threads of gold, threads of shadow, never still.

I run, yet I am not lost. I stay, yet I am not found."

The morning sun bled through the tall, arched windows, spilling golden rivulets of light across the polished marble floor. Dust motes twirled in the air, catching the glow like tiny fireflies trapped in an eternal waltz. The air was crisp-tinged with the delicate perfume of fresh lilies, their ivory petals unfurling in tall vases, and something warmer, richer. Cinnamon, perhaps, or the golden stickiness of honey dissolving into warm tea.

Beyond the grand double doors, the mansion stirred. Soft echoes of footsteps drifted through the halls-whispers against the centuries-old stone. Somewhere, porcelain met porcelain with a quiet chime, a prelude to the morning's symphony.

Breakfast awaited.

The dining hall yawned before me, vast and resplendent, its high ceilings adorned with intricate gold-leaf moldings that shimmered in the morning glow. Towering stained-glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, their fractured hues spilling onto the long, polished table like scattered jewels. A chandelier loomed overhead, its crystal pendants quivering with every subtle shift in the air, catching the light in a thousand refracted stars.

Silverware gleamed atop pristine white linen, delicate china arranged in precise, unerring order. The morning feast sprawled across the table-flaky, golden croissants still warm from the oven, fresh berries glistening like rubies and sapphires, eggs poached to silken perfection, and a steaming pot of tea, its floral scent curling through the air in soft tendrils of chamomile and bergamot.

At the head of the table stood the butler. His presence was an unbroken line of poise-spine straight, hands clasped, the silver at his temples catching the morning glow like spun moonlight. Behind him, the other servants stood in quiet formation, their uniforms crisp, their gazes unreadable yet ever-watchful.

"Good morning, Lady Adina." His voice was smooth, measured, a melody woven into the air. He inclined his head slightly, the barest tilt-a gesture of respect carved in the grace of old traditions. "I trust you slept well?"

For a moment, the words caught in my throat.

"Well enough," I murmured, my voice softer than I intended.

The butler did not falter. "That is good to hear." He extended a gloved hand toward the seat at the head of the table, a silent invitation. "Please, allow us to serve you."

I sank into the chair, the velvet upholstery embracing me in a familiar hush. A maid stepped forward, hands steady as she poured tea into a delicate porcelain cup, the amber liquid swirling in soft ripples. I wrapped my fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into my skin, grounding me.

"It's strange," I murmured, watching the steam curl into the air, vanishing like a breath on glass. "Being back here after so long. The mansion... it feels the same, yet different. Almost as if it remembers."

The butler's lips curled at the edges-just the faintest ghost of something knowing. "It does."

My gaze lifted to him. "You speak as though it were alive."

He did not deny it. "This estate has seen generations of your family, my lady. It has endured abandonment and revival, slumbered in silence and awakened to grandeur once more. But it has always remained. Waiting."

Waiting.

The word settled in my chest, heavy as the weight of untold stories.

"My grandmother," I began, tracing the rim of my teacup with a fingertip, "she was the one who brought it back to life, wasn't she?"

"Indeed." The butler reached for his own tea, adding a single sugar cube with careful precision. "Before her arrival, Zenith was nothing more than an echo of what it once was. Left untouched. Forgotten. The halls grew cold, the gardens unruly. But she..." His gaze softened, just barely. "She saw something others did not. She breathed life back into its bones."

I thought of the diary. Of the inked verses that stretched across time like whispers from the past.

"And before her?"

A shadow flickered in his gaze, fleeting but undeniable.

"Before her, the estate was abandoned. The lineage of your family once flourished here, but over time, they left. Some by choice, others by necessity."

"Why?"

He hesitated-a heartbeat too long. Then, a smile, careful and composed. "Some stories must be rediscovered in their own time."

Something in the way he said it sent a shiver down my spine, but I did not press further. Not yet.

The meal unfolded in quiet grace. The clinking of silverware, the whisper of fabric as servants moved with ghostly elegance, the faint rustle of morning light stretching through the windows.

By the time I finished, the sun had climbed higher, gilding the room in soft gold.

The butler stepped forward. "Shall I arrange for a tour of the grounds?"

I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against marble. "No need. I think I'll explore on my own."

A measured nod. "Very well, my lady. Should you need anything, the staff will be at your service."

I left the dining hall behind, my footsteps echoing through the cavernous corridors, swallowed by the hush of time itself. The air shifted as I moved, heavy with something unseen.

The corridors stretched endlessly before me, a river of polished stone bathed in the amber light of morning. The floor, smooth as glass, reflected the flickering glow of the chandeliers above-intricate things of iron and crystal, their gilded arms outstretched like frozen branches holding onto fractured stars. Shadows pooled in the corners, soft and shifting, as if the house breathed with a quiet, unseen rhythm.

Tapestries hung along the walls, their rich threads woven into sprawling tales-scenes of forgotten battles, lovers bound by fate, kings with crowns that shimmered like dying embers. The fabric, though dulled by time, still bore the scent of age-old incense, a whisper of the past lingering in its fibers. My fingers skimmed the wooden railings of the grand staircase, tracing the delicate carvings of roses and serpents entwined in an eternal dance. The wood was cool beneath my touch, as if untouched by the warmth of the sun filtering through the arched windows.

I ventured deeper, my footsteps muffled by thick Persian rugs, their intricate patterns resembling constellations woven into silk. The air here was different-still, yet alive, humming with something just beyond the reach of perception.

The first door I found stood slightly ajar, the gilded handle worn from years of use. A room lay beyond it.

A mirrored ballroom.

It was vast. Breathtaking. A space where silence pressed against the walls like an audience waiting for a performance long since abandoned. Chandeliers hung like celestial bodies, their glass pendants swaying ever so slightly, as if disturbed by an unseen presence. The mirrors-towering, gilded, eternal-lined every wall from floor to ceiling, casting infinite reflections that stretched into the distance, an endless maze of fractured realities.

The parquet floor, polished to a liquid sheen, gleamed beneath the morning sun. It bore the ghosts of countless footsteps, scuffs and whispers of movement frozen in time. Dust motes swirled in the golden light, catching in the air like remnants of a forgotten waltz.

And yet... the room was not empty.

It was full.

Full of something I couldn't see, something that pressed against the edges of perception. A weight in the air, a presence that did not belong to me alone.

I took a step forward. So did my reflection.

I watched her carefully-watched the way she moved, the way the light clung to her like something alive. But then-just for a heartbeat-something shifted. A trick of the light. A distortion in the glass.

Had she hesitated?

I turned away sharply, the breath in my lungs suddenly too heavy, too sharp. The unease curled low in my stomach, quiet but insistent, like a whisper brushing against the nape of my neck.

I had inherited this house.

But perhaps, I was not the only one who remained. It was like last night with the mole incident.

The next room was lined with portraits.

Row upon row, their gilded frames gleamed in the soft light, polished and pristine, untouched by time. The air here was thick-dense with the weight of history, with the quiet presence of those who had come before me. Their painted eyes followed as I stepped inside, watching, waiting. Some solemn, some serene. Each face frozen in time, immortalized by the careful strokes of an artist's hand.

I exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible against the silence.

The candle sconces flickered along the walls, casting shifting shadows across the faces of my ancestors. I moved between them, studying each with careful intent, my gaze tracing the delicate blend of color and oil that had preserved their likenesses for centuries. There were men with sharp, chiseled features, their expressions hard, unyielding. Women draped in rich fabrics, their gazes distant, knowing. Some looked kind, others indifferent. A few looked as though they carried secrets they had never spoken aloud.

But one portrait-one among the countless others-drew me in.

A woman, seated in quiet poise, her dark waves of hair tumbling over her shoulders like ink spilled on silk. Her eyes-piercing, unrelenting-held me captive, and her lips, curved ever so slightly, wore an enigmatic smile that felt almost alive.

My grandmother.

The artist had captured more than just her likeness. They had captured something beneath the surface-an unspoken knowledge, a quiet power. Even in stillness, she seemed to breathe, to think, to know. I could almost hear her voice, whispering between the strokes of paint, between the layers of time that separated us.

A chill crept down my spine. What had she known? What had she seen within these walls? I swallowed, forcing down the strange weight pressing against my chest. My stomach curled with unease. Everything here till now had been extremely...uncomfortable.

And then, without another word, I turned and left before I couldn't interpret all incidents. At this point, I was more than willing to shut my eyes and live in delusion if that was what it meant to ease myself.

The third room was smaller, cozier-a piano room bathed in golden light, where dust danced lazily in the air. The scent of aged wood and parchment clung to the space, interwoven with something fresher, something alive. An open archway led to a garden just beyond, where wildflowers swayed in the breeze, their colors spilling across the landscape like an untamed painting. The air drifted inside, carrying the crisp scent of earth and lavender, a breath of the outside world reaching into the quiet hush of the room.

At the center stood the piano.

Its lacquered surface gleamed, untouched yet waiting, its ivory keys shimmering beneath the filtered sunlight. The lid was propped open, the strings within glinting faintly, taut and expectant. It should have been silent. Forgotten. An instrument left to gather dust alongside the past.

Yet, as my fingers skimmed the keys, a note rang out-clear, perfect, hauntingly crisp.

Too crisp.

The sound vibrated through the air, latching onto something unseen, something that felt too aware of my presence. The resonance lingered longer than it should have, stretching into silence that felt too deep, too deliberate.

Had it been played recently?

The thought sent a ripple of unease down my spine.

A sudden shift in the air-a whisper of movement where there should have been none-made my skin prickle. My breath hitched as I turned, my gaze locking onto the mirror on the far wall. I knew I was being extremely paranoid.

My pulse quickened before I even knew why. My urges made me turn around tensely.

Nothing.

Just me.

And yet, the memory of last night clung to me like damp silk, refusing to loosen its grip. The feeling of being watched. The fleeting wrongness in the mirrored ballroom. The weight of unseen eyes in the portrait hall. The wrong yet now disappeared features.

The house was old. Ancient, even. But it was not dead.

With a deep breath, I pulled my fingers away from the keys, the unfinished melody fading into nothing.

And then, I left abruptly-before I could be tempted to play again. The feeling just won't drop.

The hallway narrowed as I walked, the stone walls pressing in with a quiet weight. Afternoon light slanted through narrow stained-glass windows, splintering into hues of crimson and gold across the floor. Shadows stretched long and restless, shifting with the dust that lingered in the air. The silence here was different-thicker, expectant. As if the house itself was waiting.

At the corridor's end stood a door unlike the others.

Darker wood, deeper carvings. The roses and thorns etched into its surface felt almost alive, twisting beneath my gaze. The handle, a polished brass untouched by time, gleamed faintly in the dim light.

My grandmother's room.

I stopped.

The air carried the faintest trace of roses and aged parchment, a scent I knew too well. It clung to my memory-her hands smoothing the pages of an old book, the soft rustle of her skirts as she moved through the halls. It was familiar, comforting. And yet, standing here, it felt different. As if the scent had lingered too long. As if it shouldn't still be here at all.

A quiet pulse of hesitation tightened in my chest.

I reached for the handle, my fingers pressing against the cool metal. A breath, slow and steady.

And then, I pushed the door open.