---
(The Architect's Gambit)
The Governor's private chamber was dimly lit, save for the golden glow of lanterns flickering against polished marble.
The city sprawled beyond his window—twisting streets, towering spires, and countless lives moving beneath his rule.
Yet, despite the view,
his gaze lingered elsewhere.
An ancient map lied spread across his desk, its edges worn with time.
Several pieces—small carved figures—were placed atop it,
each representing something only he understood.
Some stood firm.
Others had already been knocked over.
A glass of wine rested beside him, untouched.
A soft knock at the door.
He didn't turn.
"Come in."
The door opened, and a familiar presence stepped inside.
The woman from the library.
She stopped a few feet away, her usual smirk absent.
There was an unusual tightness in her stance,
like she was weighing whether to speak.
She didn't need to. He already knew.
Without looking at her, he moved a single carved piece on the map—an elegantly carved knight—
closer to the city's center.
"They've started to see it now."
The woman exhaled.
"You knew they would?"
He lifted his gaze, finally meeting hers.
His eyes gleamed in the low light.
"Of course."
His voice was smooth, confident. Too confident.
She studied him.
"Then... why haven't you stopped them?"
The Governor simply chuckled—low, rich, full of something unreadable.
He leaned back in his chair, fingertips tapping lightly against the armrest.
"Because, my dear,
the most dangerous secrets are not the ones you hide—"
His fingers trailed over another piece on the board.
A queen.
Positioned just beside the knight.
"—but the ones you let them uncover themselves."
The woman's jaw tightened.
She understood what he meant.
And she didn't like it.
The glass coffin.
The whispers from the past.
The wish that should never have been granted.
They were never meant to be kept from the truth..?
They were meant to walk right into it all along..?
A tense silence lingered between them.
Then—
the Governor smiled, tilting his head slightly.
"Tell me…
which one do you think will break first?"
She didn't answer.
But something in her expression shifted.
She turned, stepping back toward the door.
"You're playing with fire."
The Governor simply lifted his glass,
finally taking a slow sip of wine.
---
The corridor curved gently to the right.
Again.
John didn't say anything about it — not yet. But this was the third curve they'd taken.
And somehow, they still hadn't looped back.
Sally walked beside him, arms loosely folded, her eyes drifting from painting to door to wall to nowhere.
The floor was smooth stone. Bare.
It should've echoed under their steps, but it didn't. Their footsteps felt like they belonged to someone else.
A breeze passed through. But the windows were closed.
"…Does it feel empty to you?" she asked, finally.
John glanced at her.
Not surprised.
He nodded once. Quietly.
"It's like something's waiting for us to find it."
Sally frowned at that. Not because she disagreed — but because she hadn't figured out why she agreed.
They walked in silence again.
Passed a mounted lantern, unlit.
A painting of the old city walls, cracked at the corner.
A vase full of dried branches that no one seemed to have watered in years.
None of it was dusted.
None of it was dirty.
Everything was maintained.
But it didn't feel lived in.
They turned a corner.
The exact same vase was there.
Sally stopped.
John kept walking a few paces before realizing.
He looked back.
She pointed.
"We passed that already."
John studied the vase. The wall. The little framed portrait behind it of the woman with the green shawl.
"…No," he said.
She turned, stared down the hall behind them.
"Yeah," she said. "We did."
John stepped back to join her. Eyed the pattern on the floor tiles.
It wasn't just similar. It was identical.
Sally whispered:
"…Is the building looping?"
John shook his head.
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
He stared down the corridor.
"...I think it's shifting."
Sally opened her mouth — then closed it again.
There wasn't really a better explanation.
Another corridor.
Another window that didn't show the sky.
They paused near a side hall. John stared down it.
Long. Dim. Lined with tall wooden doors, each one identical.
"I hate this," Sally muttered, under her breath.
John said nothing.
---
Eventually, they spotted movement — a figure, half a hallway away.
An attendant.
John lifted a hand slightly.
"Excuse me—"
The attendant turned slowly. Smiling already. Waiting.
"We're trying to find the Governor's study," John said.
"We had an.. appointment with him." Sally quickly added.
The attendants smile didn't flicker.
"I'm sure you do," the attendant said softly.
A pause.
John waited.
"…And?"
The attendant gave a shallow bow of the head.
"I'm afraid that area is not open to guests."
Sally stepped forward, arms crossed.
"We're not just guests. We're.. elves. The Governor himself welcomed us in."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Or have you forgotten that?"
The attendant's smile didn't change.
"I understand."
"But?"
"Please enjoy your stay."
He turned and walked away. Like fog lifting. Like a scene ending.
Sally stared after him.
"Did he just dodge that question on purpose?"
John looked back at her.
"He's not the first."
She exhaled slowly, rubbing her face.
"Alright. New plan. We find it ourselves."
John nodded. Quietly.
Sally groaned. "Why do I always follow you into haunted nonsense?"
He started walking again. "Because you'd get lost alone."
"That's... honestly fair."
---
(The Forgotten Door)
They didn't talk for a while after that.
The hallways offered no reason to.
Every corridor looked just like the last — tall ceilings, gilded sconces, muted rugs that swallowed footfall.
But something had changed.
It wasn't just the repetition now.
It was the pauses.
Doors where they didn't remember doors.
Windows overlooking courtyards that shouldn't exist.
A room full of clocks, all ticking out of sync.
And not a single attendant in sight.
It felt like the house was watching them.
No, not watching— guiding.
Or testing.
John stopped at a stairwell that curved down into a shadowed passage.
The air here was cooler. Still.
He looked over his shoulder.
"You sure?"
Sally raised an eyebrow.
"You asking if I'm scared, or hoping I'll say no?"
He smirked faintly. "Bit of both."
She rolled her eyes and stepped past him.
"Come on..
Let's find your mystery room."
---
They descended slowly, the stone beneath their boots older now, less polished.
The steps creaked. Not loudly — but enough to remind them that they were being noticed.
At the bottom, a narrow hallway.
Two walls lined with forgotten portraits,
figures in formal robes, none labeled.
Each one was turned slightly, like they weren't painted to face the viewer.
Sally looked from face to face.
"Why do they all look like they're about to tell you a secret you don't want to know?"
John was watching the far wall.
One door.
Set apart from the others.
Wood darkened with age. Inlaid with bronze. Dust along the threshold, but no cobwebs. No seal.
Sally stepped beside him, suddenly quiet.
"This it?"
"Think so.."
John pressed his hand to the handle.
It was cold. Not locked.
He looked at her once. Then pushed the door open.
.
.
.
The room beyond..
Wasn't large.
Wasn't grand.
No towering shelves. No chandeliers. No war table with moving runes.
Just a study.
Quiet. Personal.
A desk. Two chairs. And a candle.
A shelf of worn books. A map half-unfurled.
It felt like someone had left only a few minutes ago.
And maybe…
like someone hadn't been here in years.
Sally stepped in slowly.
Voice barely above a whisper.
"…Doesn't feel like a place of power."
John looked around.
"No."
She continued:
"Feels like something someone couldn't let go of."
---
John stepped farther in.
His hand brushed the edge of the desk.
The wood was cold. Worn smooth in some places — scratched raw in others.
Sally moved toward the shelves.
Not hurried. Not hopeful.
She ran a finger along the row of spines. Most of them were unlabeled. The few with titles were hand-written in cramped script.
John opened a drawer. Empty.
Another.
Also empty — except for a single broken quill and a small strip of black ribbon.
He turned to Sally.
"Anything?"
She held up a book. Shook her head.
"Ledgers. Boring ones."
John crouched beside the desk, checking the bottom drawer.
It resisted at first — then gave with a creak.
Inside,
something folded.
He reached in and pulled out a torn page.
Yellowed. Edges ripped unevenly.
He scanned it once, then again.
"…The wish was granted," he read aloud,
"but the cost—"
"..."
"That's it?" Sally asked.
He handed it to her.
She turned it over. Nothing on the back.
"…But the cost what?"
"Don't know," John said quietly.
"We better find the rest of this."
They kept searching.
Books pulled. Pages turned. Drawers opened and closed.
For a while,
the only sound was the scratch of paper and the soft flicker of candlelight.
The flame threw long shadows, swaying slowly across the room.
Sally sat cross-legged on the floor, three books open in her lap.
"How long are we gonna do this?" she asked, flipping a page with a sigh.
John, still scanning a bound volume from the desk shelf, didn't look up.
"You getting tired already?"
She snorted.
"Sorry if I like my books to be a little less cursed."
He closed the one he was holding with a quiet thump.
"Fair."
The words came soft against the hush of the room.
---
Jake kept one hand on the wall now.
Not dramatically.
Just… casually enough to pretend he wasn't checking if it was real.
King walked beside him, quiet.
Not annoyed anymore.
Not curious either.
Just watching.
The hall twisted once — then again. Left. Left. Left again.
Jake frowned.
"…We've turned left three times now."
King nodded.
Jake stopped.
"We're walking in a circle."
"No," King said flatly. "We're walking in a shape that seems like a circle."
Jake blinked.
"That's worse."
King didn't argue.
They reached a fork.
The left path was polished. Clean. Gold trim along the edge of the floor.
The right was narrower. Slightly sloped.
Light didn't fall quite right there— as if the corridor was just… absorbing it.
Jake pointed left.
"That way leads to breadsticks."
King looked right.
"That way leads to answers."
Jake sighed dramatically. "Do answers come with garlic butter?"
King gave him a look. It said "do I look like I enjoy your jokes?"
Jake groaned. "Fine. Answers it is."
---
The hallway grew colder.
The lights dimmed, but didn't flicker.
That would've been too obvious.
Instead, it was the sound that vanished.
Their footsteps? Too soft.
Their breath? Too loud.
Even Jake stopped trying to fill the space with sarcasm.
At least until:
"…You ever get the feeling we should buy a building?"
King didn't look at him.
"I don't."
Jake muttered, "Coulda fooled me."
They reached a door. Wood. No handle.
Just a brass plate that read:
"Archives – Sub Wing C"
Jake touched it.
Warm.
King watched the ceiling.
"Listen."
Jake paused.
Silence.
But then—
a hum.
Faint. Oddly... melodic.
Jake looked at King.
"We going in?"
King replied, deadpan:
"I was dragged into this by a boy who said he wanted snacks."
Jake shrugged. "Didn't say no."
He pressed his shoulder into the door.
It opened with a sigh.
---
"…Is that—?"
A waft of something hot, thick, and vaguely edible curled through the air.
He sniffed again.
"Okay, tell me that's food."
King squinted down the hall.
The smell grew stronger.
Jake didn't wait.
He immediately pushed through—
—and immediately jumped back.
"WHO DARES ENTER MY DOMAIN?!"
A booming voice shook the copper pans on the wall.
A man stood at the center of a massive kitchen — wide-shouldered, draped in a stained apron, wielding a ladle like a weapon and an oven mitt like a gauntlet.
Jake blinked.
"…A kitchen!"
The man puffed out his chest.
"Yes! The sacred heart of the estate!
The very lifeblood that keeps these cold, dark halls from falling into despair!"
Jake and King exchange a wary glance.
"And… you are?" King asked.
He jabbed the ladle forward like a sword. "And I—am,
He struck a pose.
"Ludovic the Mighty!"
"The sole provider of nourishment to the most powerful man in this city!"
"You are the guests, yes? The elves?"
Jake nodded slowly.
"Great. Sit. Sit."
"I mean—" Jake began, but was already being shoved to a table by a wall of apron and steam.
King followed, arms crossed, unimpressed.
A bowl was slammed down in front of each of them.
Something vaguely stew-like sloshed inside.
Jake peered into his. "Looks… edible enough, right?"
King shrugged.
Ludovic gasped.
"Blasphemy!"
Jake looked up, startled.
"I didn't even say anything!"
"You thought it!" Ludovic growled, stabbing a finger at him. "I could feel it!"
He stormed forward.
Jake leaned back instinctively, hands raised. "Alright, alright—"
Too late.
Ludovic scooped a heaping spoonful from the pot.
"You doubt my creation? Then you shall taste truth."
"Wait—wait—" Jake tried to twist away, but Ludovic was too fast.
One massive arm wrapped around the back of Jake's chair.
The other came in with the spoon like a guided missile.
Jake winced.
"Open," Ludovic commanded.
King didn't move. Didn't help. Just stared like this was the best thing he'd seen all week.
Jake opened his mouth — purely for self-preservation.
The spoon went in.
The taste hit.
And Jake's soul briefly left his body.
He sputtered, coughing.
"What—what is that?!"
Ludovic beamed.
"My special secret blend."
King leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand.
"Got what you wanted?"
Jake groaned.
"I think I sense a puke coming."
---
Jake stayed slumped over the table,
eyes watering, still recovering from whatever had just seared its way down his throat.
The bowl was still half full.
Jake stared at it like it might move again.
Ludovic wiped his hands on his apron, clearly satisfied.
"You have been fed. You are welcome."
"I think I lost five years of my life."
Ludovic stood proudly, arms crossed like a sculptor admiring his masterpiece.
"It's worth it, child!" Ludovic declared.
King stood, brushing off imaginary dust from his sleeves.
"Let's go before he offers dessert."
Jake groaned as he pushed himself up.
Ludovic turned dramatically toward the stove.
"If ever you hunger again—return. Let Ludovic feed you!"
Jake got up, wobbling.
"We'll… keep that in mind."
"Come back anytime!"
Ludovic waved them off like royalty.
Jake and King exited in silence,
the kitchen door swinging shut behind them.
Only once the hall quieted did Jake whisper:
"I'd rather eat my own shoe."
King snorted.
"I think you just did."
They started walking — no destination in mind, just away.
The hallway stretched ahead, dim and long.
Just then—
A voice echoed from somewhere off to the left.
Distant. Familiar.
"Hey—Jake? King?"
They both stopped.
Jake squinted toward the sound.
"…Was that Harry?"
King sighed. "Of course it was."
And they turned to follow it.
---
John leaned back in the chair, spine cracking slightly as he stretched.
A thin layer of dust puffed off the desk surface as he shifted.
Across from him,
Sally layed on her back now, book balanced on her stomach, eyes skimming the ceiling more than the pages.
"This place," she mumbled, "is weird."
John raised an eyebrow. "That's the scientific term?"
"Mm-hmm," she hummed. "Weird walls. Weird halls. Weird vibes."
John tapped his fingers lightly on the wood.
"Hey," Sally said, suddenly. "Promise me something."
He looked over. She didn't sit up.
"If we find something too big — too much — we leave it.
...Ok?
We don't poke it until we absolutely have to."
John didn't answer right away.
He turned back to the desk.
His eyes drifted to the edge,
and stopped.
There, half-tucked under a folder he didn't remember seeing, was a leather-bound journal.
He stared at it.
It hadn't been there a minute ago.
Had it?
---
He reached for it, opened it gently.
The ink inside was faded,
but readable enough.
"To wish is to forget," he read.
His brow creased. Smile gone.
Sally looked up.
"What?"
He turned the journal, showed her the line.
She read it. Then again.
She looked up at him.
"What do you think it means, John?"
---
She leaned forward, flipping a few pages ahead.
Some were torn. Others smudged — as if something had tried to erase them.
But not completely.
She found a line that stopped her.
"He doesn't remember. None of them do.
The wish worked, but I fear the cost was too high.
How long until I forget as well?"
Sally's breath caught.
"…John?"
He looked over her shoulder. Read it silently.
"A wish, a price. To forget." he said softly.
The room felt colder.
The shadows on the wall seemed to stretch, just slightly.
Sally hugged her knees.
"You don't think…?"
John turned to her.
"If it ever was us… we'd figure it out. Together."
That calmed her. A little.
Not enough.
Sally muttered, "You really know how to make a girl feel safe while reading a cursed diary."
John smiled faintly, running his thumb along the journal's cover.
"I try my best."
Sally flipped another page.
"Let's keep reading," she said.
"Let's see how bad this horror story gets."
John nodded.
And turned the next page.
---
The staircase curved like it was never meant to end.
Worn stone steps.
A handrail half-swallowed by rust.
The walls were damp, and narrow. Not carved — pressed into place.
Like something heavier than the earth had folded it inward.
"Who even builds stairs like this?" finn said, unimpressed.
Aurora glanced back,
torchlight casting long shadows on the curve of the stair.
"...I don't think this was built," Harry said.
A pause.
"Wha—?"
Finn said after a beat.
He looked at Aurora, who shrugged.
Harry exhaled.
Harry had been trailing just behind,
scribbling something into a notebook.
He was counting each step under his breath, marking intervals with quiet pencil strokes in the margins of it.
"Eighty-nine… ninety…"
Finn brought up the rear, gaze darting between shadows that hadn't moved — yet still felt too close.
"This chamber looks…" Harry began, pausing mid-thought.
"Old?" Aurora offered.
Harry shook his head. "Older than old."
Finn squinted past them.
"…I kind of want to touch it tho."
Harry glanced. "You what?"
"It's a big weird orb. I'm sure you want to touch it too."
"Well,
Only for scientific purposes.."
Harry lifted his hand,
"Unless I touch it first!" Aurora said.
Her hand over the stone wall. Proud.
They continued.
No windows. No wind.
Just a steady downward spiral and air that got thicker the deeper they went.
Aurora slowed near the bottom.
The stair opened into a short hall — smoother than the stone above.
Almost polished.
The torch in her hand flickered once.
Then stilled.
Finn stepped beside her.
"…Okay," he muttered. "I'm definitely touching whatevers inside."
He declared.
The door ahead of them,
wasn't a door. Not quite.
It had no knob, no hinges, no visible seam.
Just a circular arch in the wall — with a faint shimmer, like glass beneath skin.
Harry touched it,
gently.
They were both jealous, of course.
The shimmer pulsed once.
Then… opened.
The vault waited beyond.
---
They stepped through the arch.
The vault was circular.
Wider than expected.
The walls curved up into a smooth dome, disappearing into darkness overhead.
No torch brackets. No windows. No visible light source.
Yet the room was lit.
Dim, silvery light clung to the walls. Not bright enough to see clearly — just enough to see what shouldn't be there.
At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal.
Short.
Sturdy.
And atop it,
a metallic sphere.
Smooth. Featureless. The color of wet stone.
It didn't shine — it swallowed light.
Reflected nothing clearly, just smeared silhouettes that didn't move right.
Finn slowed first.
He didn't speak.
Just tilted his head.
The air inside the vault felt… thick.
Like it had been waiting for them.
Aurora stepped to his side, torch lowered.
Harry remained near the archway, staring up at the dome's invisible ceiling.
"This place…" he murmured,
"It's not on the estate map."
"Wait, you have a map?!"
Finn didn't respond.
He was staring at the sphere.
"…I kind of want to touch it."
He was fully hypnotized.
Harry approached slowly, circling wide.
The pedestal was carved with markings — but nothing they recognized.
No numbers.
No language.
Just shapes. Patterns.
Like someone tried to copy thought into stone.
He squinted.
"It's reacting,"
Finn looked over. "Reacting like… 'cool old magic,' or 'we're all about to explode'?"
Harry didn't answer.
Because in that moment,
the sphere pulsed.
---
A ripple passed through it — not movement, exactly,
but distortion. Like heat bending air.
Aurora stepped back instinctively.
Finn blinked.
"…Did it just breathe?"
---
The sphere pulsed again.
This time, they felt it. In their chests. In their teeth.
A deep vibration — not sound, not movement.
A presence.
Harry stepped closer, slower now.
His notebook hung forgotten in one hand.
His eyes were fixed on the pedestal.
"This chamber…" he whispered.
"It's older than the estate. Older than this city."
The torch in Aurora's hand flickered low. Too low.
She raised it instinctively.
Then froze.
There was a shadow behind the pedestal.
Wrong size. Wrong shape. Elongated. Crooked at the joints.
Not cast by the torch.
Not cast by anyone.
"…Guys,"
Finn moved to her side.
"What—"
Then the voice came.
Cracked.
Familiar and foreign all at once.
"Let me go…"
Finn flinched.
"…He won't… let me…"
The voice warped as it echoed — like it didn't belong in air anymore.
"…let me… go—"
Aurora backed into Finn without realizing it.
"Please tell me you're hearing this," she said, voice flat with controlled panic.
Finn didn't answer.
"..He won't let me go—"
"Please… before it's too late."
Harry turned slowly — eyes wide, fixed on nothing.
The shadow moved.
Not away. Not toward.
Just… shifted. Like a thought changing its mind.
And then—
disappeared.
No noise.
No wind.
No trace.
Just gone.
The torch sputtered once,
flared— then calmed.
Aurora's breath was shallow now.
"What was that?"
"I don't know."
Finn exhaled slowly.
He looked at the sphere, then at the spot where the shadow had stood.
"…But we're definitely getting arrested after this."
Harry stood there still. Didn't even blink.
He was kneeling now.
At the edge of the pedestal.
There — pressed into a crack in the stone — was a folded note.
Old.
Smudged.
Still warm.
He opened it.
The handwriting was jagged. Desperate.
It wrote,
"A wish that was granted…
—but never let go."
He stared at it.
Then,
looked up.
"…Something's wrong here,"
His voice was quiet.
Steady.
But his eyes said everything else.
"Very, very wrong."
---
("Closer Than I Wanted")
The halls of the estate were empty at this hour.
Not dark — the lanterns still glowed, soft and warm.
But empty in a way,
that made even the Governor's footsteps feel too loud.
He walked alone.
Past mirrored walls, past locked rooms, past portraits that never blinked — but always watched.
A gloved hand brushed against the stone as he passed.
Not by accident.
He was looking.
Not urgently.
But intently.
Down another corridor. Then another.
A pair of attendants turned the corner ahead — robes neat, hands folded.
They paused when they saw him.
One bowed quickly. "Governor."
"Evening," he said smoothly.
"You're both still awake?"
The first nodded. "We were tending the guest quarters, sir."
"Ah." He smiled. "Always diligent."
The second hesitated. "May we assist you, Governor?"
He waved them off gently.
"No need. Just… walking."
His smile didn't change.
But his eyes didn't meet theirs.
They bowed again. Said nothing else. Stepped aside.
He passed between them like a shadow — and kept walking.
Down the next hallway, his hand touched another wall. Slower this time.
Fingers tracing something only he could feel.
He stopped at a door.
Not special. Not locked.
But he didn't open it.
He just stood there for a moment, as if listening.
Under his breath — barely audible:
"They're close now."
A pause.
"Closer than I ever wanted them to be."
He turned. The hallway behind him stretched longer than before.
And he walked on.
---
(The Letter to Liana)
Sally sat cross-legged now, flipping through a stack of papers.
John moved along the bookshelves, scanning spines that hadn't been touched in years.
One shelf tilted slightly to the left.
Another was dustless in one exact square — like something had recently been taken, or returned.
Sally sighed, low and tired.
"…How do people even hide this much paper?"
John knelt near the desk, sorting through drawers.
Nothing useful.
Receipts. Old maps. Dull correspondence sealed in wax that had long since crumbled.
Then —
click.
He blinked.
Looked down.
The lowest drawer wasn't fully closed.
And the lock — oddly shaped.
Sally looked up at the sound.
"Hmm?"
He tugged the handle.
Locked.
He tried again.
No give.
Sally wandered over, eyeing it.
"Here, let me," she said.
She pulled a pin from her hair.
John smirked. "Seriously?"
"I'm a woman of many talents," she muttered.
A few gentle twists.
A soft clack.
The drawer slid open.
Inside:
A folded letter.
And an old brass key.
John reached in, picking up the letter.
Sally read the envelope aloud:
"To Liana."
The name hung in the air like a memory neither of them recognized.
John opened it.
The writing inside was sharper. Not rushed. Measured — but personal.
He scanned it quickly.
His expression changed.
Sally leaned in.
"What is it?"
He handed her the letter.
She read in silence.
No full names.
No dates.
Only fragments.
"I tried it, I've tried to stop it, you know. I really did."
"But grief makes fools of us all."
"If this reaches you, then maybe… just maybe I've undone what I did."
"But if not — if you're still in there — I'm sorry."
"I've loved you more than anything."
"My beloved."
Sally folded the letter slowly.
Her voice was quiet now.
"…This is love."
"No."
"This is grief."
He looked down at the key in his hand. Turned it once in his fingers. Felt the cold of it settle in his palm.
"It's something someone couldn't let go of."
Sally looked at him.
"We have to find out just how much of this city was built on it."
---
The silence in the study stretched long.
Dust drifted in the slant of light across the desk.
The journal lay open where they'd left it.
The air had changed — not colder exactly, just... thicker. Like it knew what they were about to do.
John moved to the far corner of the room — to the shelf that leaned just slightly wrong.
His fingers traced along the wood, then dropped to the floor.
There it was.
A thin break in the wall, barely visible.
Not a crack. A seam.
Sally joined him, quiet now.
John knelt and slid the key from his pocket.
It fit the lock with a soft resistance,
like the door hadn't been opened in years — maybe longer.
He looked at Sally once.
She gave a slight nod.
He turned the key.
Click.
It wasn't a clean sound. It dragged — like something rusted deep inside had finally given up.
And then,
The door creaked open,
slow and deliberate, heavy with memory.
What waited inside wasn't darkness.
It was stillness.
---
The door opened only partway before the hinges gave a low, resisting groan.
John pushed it the rest of the way, and the sound echoed — not loudly, but like it shouldn't have happened.
Beyond the threshold was a room untouched by time.
Not dusty.
Not ruined.
Just… paused.
A canopy bed stood near the center — sheer drapes flowing gently despite the lack of wind.
The sheets were smooth, tucked, pristine. Not even a crease from sleep.
To the side: a vanity.
Delicate. Hand-carved. Crowded with small, fragile things — ivory combs, silver bracelets, half-melted candles still standing.
The scent hit next.
Not decay. Not mildew.
But,
Lavender.
Faint. Lingering. Wrongly intact.
Sally stepped inside first.
She didn't speak.
Her fingers hovered over the edge of the vanity — never quite touching it.
John followed, slower.
The air here was too quiet.
His footfalls didn't echo.
The room seemed to take the sound and swallow it.
They were intruders. Not just into a space—
into a moment.
Sally stopped.
She wasn't looking at the bed.
Not the vanity.
She was staring at what lay just beyond it — at the very center of the room.
A structure low and gleaming in the filtered light.
A glass coffin.
John stepped forward and saw it.
His breath caught before he could stop it.
The glass was flawless.
There were no dust. No scratches.
It gleamed under the dim light like water frozen mid-motion.
Sally stepped forward without realizing it — her boots whispering across the rug.
Then she stopped short.
Her hand reached back instinctively, finding John's wrist.
Her fingers were ice cold.
Inside the coffin lay a woman.
Her skin was pale — not from death, but from a kind of softness that didn't seem possible.
Her lips still held color.
Her hair was dark, intricately braided, woven through with thin golden threads that caught what little light there was.
Sally whispered, barely audible.
"…John?"
He stepped closer — slow, careful, as if the floor might creak loud enough to wake her.
He stared down at her.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
But she didn't.. look dead either.
That was the worst part.
She looked… Alive.
Like the pause between inhale and exhale.
Like someone who might wake up if you called the right name.
His stomach turned.
Behind him, Sally hovered — watching his face more than the coffin now.
Waiting for him to make sense of this.
But his expression didn't turn grim.
It turned disturbed.
Not just by what he saw.
But by the whisper rising somewhere deep inside — the one that said this wasn't the end of a story.
It was the beginning of one.
---
They stood in front of the glass coffin for what felt like far too long.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
The room held its breath with them.
Sally's eyes traced the womans features — how still she was.
Too still.
Her hands were folded neatly over her stomach, resting on lace as white as frost.
A ribbon circled her wrist.
A gold thread glinted through her braid.
It wasn't just the stillness that disturbed Sally.
It was the perfection of it.
She pressed a hand gently to her own chest, grounding herself.
Her voice came out in a hush — too soft for a room this quiet.
"…John."
He didn't answer.
"She looks alive."
Still no answer.
She turned slightly — saw the way his jaw clenched.
The way his shoulders had stiffened.
Finally, he spoke.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just steady.
"She's not."
His tone didn't leave room for doubt.
But there was something beneath it — a tightness,
like he was forcing himself to believe it.
Sally blinked. She hadn't expected him to sound like that.
She glanced back at the coffin.
Then, quietly:
"…Then why hasn't she—"
She didn't finish the question.
She couldn't.
There wasn't a good ending to that sentence.
John stepped forward.
Close enough now that his reflection stared back at him in the glass.
He lifted a hand.
Rested his palm against it.
The surface was cold.
No breath fogged the inside.
No flicker of movement stirred the womans dress.
Just the same unnatural, untouched stillness.
John's voice dropped to a murmur.
"This isn't normal."
Sally stood beside him again.
"…No. It's not."
A silence settled.
Long enough for both of them to wonder whether they'd made a mistake stepping into this room at all.
Then—
creeeeeak.
They both froze.
The sound came from behind them.
John moved without thinking.
He stepped in front of Sally, body tense, eyes locked on the far wall.
A door had opened.
They were sure it hadn't been there before.
Set flush into the wall, nearly invisible — no handle, no markings.
Now, it yawned slightly open, as if stirred by a breathless whisper.
Sally gripped his sleeve lightly.
"…Was that door always—?"
"No," John said.
He didn't take his eyes off it.
"It wasn't."
---
John and Sally stood frozen at the threshold.
The door — if it could be called that — was narrow, unevenly shaped, as though carved from inside rather than built from outside.
It hung slightly ajar now. No sound came from beyond it. No light either.
Just that faint hum — not of noise, but of presence.
John glanced at Sally.
She didn't speak, didn't move.
He took a breath.
"Let me handle this one alone, sal."
His voice was soft, even.
But the way he looked at the doorway said everything else:
there's something wrong, and I don't want you near it.
Sally's head turned, slow. Her expression was flat. Not annoyed — just… unimpressed.
"You think I'm letting you go alone?"
John huffed a quiet laugh.
Not amused.
Not really.
Just… a reflex.
"Figure I'd at least give it try."
He looked down at the ground, then back at the door.
"We should be careful," she added, more quietly now.
John nodded once.
"Stay close."
They stepped forward together.
Past the coffin.
Past the lavender-sweet air that had grown too still.
Through the hidden door.
---
The walls turned rough — stone, unfinished. Cracked in places, sweating faint traces of moisture.
The scent of lavender, so persistent in the bedroom, faded as they moved deeper.
Now, the air was dry.
Stale.
Like it had been trapped here with something that didn't breathe.
Their footsteps echoed in odd patterns — muffled, then sharp, then gone entirely.
Sally ran a hand along the wall beside her. It flaked under her fingers.
"Feels abandoned," she murmured.
The corridor twisted slightly.
And at the end of it —
A door.
No lock.
Just a warped wooden slab leaning in its frame like it didn't belong there in the first place.
John pushed it open.
It didn't creak.
Inside was a small chamber.
Unfurnished,
except for a single chair in the center — its wood faded, its cushions worn thin with time — facing a mirror taller than both of them.
The mirror's surface was cracked, fogged over in spiderweb patterns.
But not from age.
From something else.
It looked like it didn't want to reflect anything.
Sally stood just inside the room, rubbing her arms like the temperature had dropped five degrees.
John stepped forward,
eyes locked on the glass.
He couldn't explain why.
It felt like it was looking at him.
Not the other way around.
Something in the mirror stirred —
And just for a second—
A blink—
His reflection changed.
---
John froze.
He was staring into the mirror — but it didn't stare back.
His reflection… twitched. Just slightly off-sync. A half-second late.
Then it changed.
It was still him.
Same face.
Same height.
Same stance.
But, it wasn't him.
The eyes were wrong.
Hollow, not in expression — in presence.
Like they were drawn on glass, not lit from within.
The other John didn't blink.
Didn't shift.
Just stared at him with the kind of stillness only statues or corpses could manage.
Then — blink.
Gone.
Just his normal reflection again.
Breathing. Alive.
John stepped back, heart knocking once, hard.
Behind him, Sally's voice came soft:
"…John, what's wrong?"
He exhaled once, slow. Controlled.
"…I'm fine."
She didn't believe him.
Her gaze flicked from him to the mirror.
There was something about it — the cracks, the misted surface — it felt like it was watching them. Not reflecting.
John's eyes drifted to the chair.
He moved closer.
Dust layered thick across the arms — untouched by time, untouched by use.
Until he wiped one clean with his palm.
Beneath it—
A name.
Scratched in uneven letters.
Carved deep, like the person had been gripping the wood too tightly.
Liana.
John's breath caught.
He said it aloud. Barely.
"Liana…"
Sally stepped forward, whispering:
"That's the name from the letter."
John nodded slowly.
Not confused.
Just… putting it together.
The pieces felt like they'd always been there. Waiting for them.
The room shifted colder.
Sally hugged herself.
"…Hey, John?" she said gently, "maybe we should go now."
He didn't move at first.
Then finally — he nodded.
He turned with her.
They stepped back toward the door.
And just then..
When they turned their backs,
The mirror flickered.
And this time—
John wasn't in it at all.
---
The hallway was empty.
Stone beneath his feet. No guards. No attendants. Just silence and shadow.
The Governor walked alone.
Each step echoed differently here — not sharp, not loud, just… final.
He moved with purpose, though there was no one watching.
As if he'd done this walk before, more times than he could count.
At the end of the corridor stood a door.
Not ornate.
Not grand.
Old brass. A faded emblem carved just above the handle — weathered beyond recognition.
He stopped in front of it.
Rested a hand on the wood.
The way someone might greet a grave.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Until, softly—
Not to the door.
Not to the silence.
But to someone who wasn't there anymore.
"I kept my promise."
His hand dropped.
---
[TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 18]