I heard voices again. Distant... muffled... like echoes from a world no longer mine.

  They were coming closer—slow footsteps brushing against ancient stone. A murmur of life. Of the living.

  But I could not answer.My mouth would not open.My voice had long since been devoured by this silence.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t pass in the dark. It stretches, melts, folds in on itself until days and years are indistinguishable. There is no hunger. No thirst. Only the cold. Only the stillness.

  And the door.

  That cursed door.

  It’s always there—glowing faintly in the dark, just beyond the reach of my chains. A cruel trick of hope. I see it every time I open my eyes, and every time, it never opens.

  I've forgotten my name.Forgotten why I'm here.Forgotten if I ever truly lived at all.

  Sometimes... I hear her. The old woman. Coughing beyond the door. Her voice scratches like dead leaves on stone. She never speaks to me. Never opens the door. Just coughs. Waits.

  It’s the only sound that ever returns. Until now.

  These new voices... they don’t belong here.

  They’re warm. Nervous. Alive.

  They don’t know this room.They don’t know what waits behind this door.They don’t know me.

  Back in the dining room, Elias stirred awake.

  He didn’t remember falling asleep. The st thing he recalled was resting against Bridget’s shoulder, her quiet presence sheltering him from the creeping dread. Then—darkness. Exhaustion had cimed him without warning. Careless.

  He sat up with a groan, rubbing his eyes. The others were already awake.

  Seraphine knelt beside Tobey’s covered body, hands csped tightly in prayer. Her lips moved without sound, whispering to whatever god might still be listening—pleading for Tobey’s soul to be freed from this cursed pce.

  Elias’s eyes swept the room. Bridget, Marin, and Lina were gone.

  He turned to Reed, who sat curled against the wall, knees drawn to his chest like a frightened child. The boy didn’t seem to notice Elias was awake until he spoke.

  “Where are the others?”

  Reed blinked and looked up, dazed. “They went to cook.”

  Elias nodded. It made sense—someone had to take care of it. Still, the silence felt heavier than it should have. The air carried a tension that hadn't been there before.

  He rose slowly, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. “Do you have any paper?”

  Reed frowned. “Paper?”

  “I want to write something down,” Elias said. “There’s no ink, but charcoal from the kitchen should work.”

  Reed started to get up without hesitation—but Elias reached out and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait. We don’t split up in pairs anymore,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “It’s only safe when we’re in groups of three.”

  Reed paused, then gave a silent nod. He understood.

  Elias waited in silence until Seraphine finished her prayer. Only when her hands finally lowered from their csped grip did he speak.

  “Come with me,” he said. “To the kitchen. You too, Reed.”

  Seraphine gave a faint nod, offering no protest, and the three of them made their way through the dim corridors.

  In the kitchen, the scent of smoke and boiling grain hung in the air. Marin was bent over a modest fire, stirring a pot banced atop a surprisingly intact iron stand. Beside her, Lina moved with quiet focus, arranging the ingredients and tools they’d scrounged together.

  But something was wrong.

  Bridget was missing.

  Elias’s voice cut through the quiet like a bde. “Where is she?”

  Marin flinched at the sudden sound, nearly dropping the wooden spoon in her hand. She turned, startled, then hesitantly replied, “She went to fetch water…”

  Her words trailed off under Elias’s sharp gre.

  He exhaled, frustration pressing tight against his chest. “The mansion isn’t safe. You let her wander off alone?”

  Marin lowered her head. “I—I know… I’m sorry.”

  She looked genuinely remorseful, her voice shaking with guilt. Elias said nothing at first, letting the weight of the silence press down. Then he turned toward the hallway.

  “I’ll go find her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Seraphine said quickly.

  “No,” Elias replied. “It’s better if I go alone.”

  Lina stepped forward, concern etched across her face. “Brother, that’s not safe. What if—?”

  Seraphine echoed her, voice sharper. “It makes no sense to go alone. Do you have a death wish?”

  Elias looked at them both, then shook his head. “No. But listen—if I take someone with me, it leaves the rest of you unguarded. We can’t have that. The impostor is still among us. The only way we stay safe is if everyone is under someone’s watch.”

  They fell silent.

  He continued, tone steady but cold, “If something happens to me… if I don’t come back… consider Bridget the impostor. She’s the only one unaccounted for.”

  A heavy pause settled between them.

  Seraphine’s mouth opened, but no words came. She understood. They all did. And they hated it.

  Elias gave them one st look—soft, apologetic—then turned and stepped into the dark hallway, vanishing into the mansion’s silent, breathing gloom.

  Elias had taken a candle from the kitchen before leaving. Small, half-used, but enough. He struck a match and lit it, shielding the flickering fme with his hand as shadows danced across the hallway walls.

  The mansion swallowed him whole.

  With only the soft glow of the candle to guide him, he stepped through the suffocating darkness. The wooden floor creaked beneath his boots—each sound a whisper, each echo a quiet accusation. Soon he reached the grand hall. As always, it was silent, still, like a painting frozen in time.

  He exhaled, steadying himself, and began to climb the staircase. Its grand, sweeping steps had once suited a house of nobility. Now they merely felt like the ribs of a slumbering beast.

  Halfway up, he noticed a rge portrait on the wall.

  The canvas depicted a girl in a dress of deep emerald. Or, rather, it once had. The face was gone—scratched out or eroded long ago—leaving behind only a vague shape and torn fabric where identity should have been. The dress reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t pce who.

  He stared for a moment longer, a vague unease gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, then turned away and continued onward.

  At the top of the stairs, he spotted a door.

  He had passed many like it in this mansion. Yet this one felt… different. It was in the air—the stillness, the way the candle’s fme seemed to bend ever so slightly in its direction. As if something behind it was breathing.

  Something was calling him.

  Drawn by curiosity or instinct, he stepped forward and tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Locked. Sealed tight. Why? Who had closed it—and what was inside?

  He leaned closer, trying to peer through the keyhole. But there was only bckness. Not just the absence of light, but something deeper. A darkness that seemed to look back.

  Then—

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  He flinched violently, spinning around. The sudden movement struck his candle hand against the wall, and a spsh of water hit the floor.

  “Apologies, Master Elias,” Bridget said quietly.

  She stood there holding a rge water jar, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

  He stared at her, heart pounding. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she replied, bowing slightly. “I was just returning from the well.”

  Elias frowned, gncing at the spilled water, then back at her. “You shouldn’t be wandering alone.”

  “I understand. It won’t happen again.”

  She stooped to pick up the jar, the silence thick between them.

  Elias wasn’t sure if her apology made him feel better or worse. But she was here now—and this might be his only chance to explore further before suspicion or danger pulled them all back.

  Still holding the candle, he cast one st gnce at the sealed door behind him.

  Something was in there.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  “Did you say… a well?” Elias asked, his brows furrowing, the flickering candlelight dancing across his face.

  Bridget nodded. “When I first came to the kitchen with the old woman… she told me there was a well inside the mansion.”

  The words lodged in his mind like a splinter. A well—inside the house? It made no sense. But logic had long abandoned this pce. This was the witch’s mansion, and in here, the rules of reality twisted like smoke.

  “Where is it?” he asked quietly.

  Bridget didn’t answer. She only turned, her expression unreadable, and motioned for him to follow.

  She led him through a dim corridor that seemed longer than he remembered, the walls swallowing their footsteps. The fme in Elias’s hand hissed with each draft of cold air, barely strong enough to push back the surrounding dark.

  Eventually, they stepped into a wide, forgotten room. The air here was heavier, stiller. In one corner stood a low stone wall—circur and smooth, just high enough to lean over. A well.

  Elias stared at it.

  “But… we’re on the second floor,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  It shouldn’t be here. Yet the stone looked old, weathered by time. Real.

  He exhaled slowly, the breath shaky. “Of course. A witch’s mansion…”

  He turned to Bridget. “Hold my hand.”

  She obeyed immediately, her fingers slipping into his without hesitation. Her grip was cool, steady, but there was tension in it—an unspoken fear pressing against her silence. Elias said nothing. He simply squeezed back.

  They continued through the hallway, checking room after room. The candlelight traced shadows along the walls. Furniture cloaked in white sheets loomed like specters. Time seemed to blur as they pushed through door after door. Nothing. Just more decay. Dust. Silence.

  Until the st room.

  As soon as Elias stepped inside, he knew something was different.

  The air was lighter. There was no dust on the floorboards. No cobwebs in the corners. The bed was made with care, not a single wrinkle in the sheets. The windows were shut, but the room smelled faintly of vender.

  It felt… lived in.

  Elias stared for a moment, then sat on the edge of the bed, weary from hours of searching. The mattress was soft, too soft. It welcomed him like it had been waiting.

  “Sit,” he murmured, almost absently.

  Bridget didn’t sit.

  She id down beside him.

  He turned, blinking in surprise. She rarely acted of her own will. Either she misunderstood him—or she didn’t.

  Her eyes met his, calm and unblinking. There was no fear in them, but something deeper—acceptance. Or maybe surrender.

  She smelled faintly of flowers, clean and comforting amidst the rot of the mansion. Elias gazed at her, realizing how tightly he had been wound since Tobey’s death. How desperately he had tried to stay composed.

  She was scared too. And this was her escape. Just as he smoked to fill the silence inside him, she sought warmth in its pce.

  He leaned in.

  Their breathing quickened, soft and uneven in the silence. The warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair. His hand touched her cheek. He didn’t think—he just moved. Their lips met. It was gentle. Hesitant. Then deeper.

  Bridget clung to him like an anchor, and he rolled over her, his body trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. The kiss stretched on, long and slow. Real. Human.

  Shirts fell away. Their hearts beat too fast. Her blouse in his fingers—

  And then he saw it.

  Eyes.

  Watching.

  From beneath the bed.

  He froze, blood turning to ice. A pair of gssy, unblinking eyes, reflecting the candlelight in eerie silence.

  A cold dread spread through his chest.

  He grabbed Bridget and pulled her away, fast and tight.

  “What—?” she gasped, confused—until she followed his gaze.

  She saw them too.

  Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. Those eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

  Elias forced himself to stand. He swallowed back the fear crawling up his throat and reached for the bed.

  It screeched across the wooden floor as he pushed it aside.

  And what y beneath stole the breath from both of them.

  A dark pool of blood, half-dried, thick and crusted. The smell hit first—copper and rot.

  And a body.

  The old woman. The witch.

  Her frame was crumpled like a discarded doll. Her eyes wide and lifeless. Her mouth slightly open as if she had died mid-scream.

  Elias stared in stunned silence. The candle trembled in his grip.

  “How…?” he whispered, voice barely audible. “How could the witch… die?”