The next day after the encounter, I was moved to the west wing of the house. It was bigger and more expensive looking. The furniture cost a fortune and everything was polished until one could see their complexion on them.
For the first three days in the west wing, nothing happened.
I woke up at six. I was dressed by the maids. I walked in the garden. I ate with Damien in silence. Then I returned to my room.
Each night, the same thing.
No voice. No warmth. No questions.
Only cold instructions.
He watched me like I was a thing.
Not a person.
But a project.
Still, I followed the rules.
I acted like her.
I even started playing the piano like he said she used to play. My fingers found the keys without trying. I didn't know how, but the music came out anyway.
Damien would sometimes listen from the doorway.
He never clapped.
He just said, "Yes. That's how she played it."
And then left.
But something was wrong with the west wing.
One night, I woke up because I heard something.
It sounded like humming.
A soft, high voice singing.
I sat up in bed and looked around.
Nothing.
The fire had gone out. The room was dark. But the sound kept going.
It was coming from the wall behind the piano.
I stood up slowly and walked to it.
The humming seemed to be playing from a recorder.
I pressed my hand against the wall.
It was warm.
I stepped back, suddenly frightened.
I didn't sleep again that night. I stayed awake for the rest of the night wondering what must have been going on in that part of the house. It was puzzling. Even more so because no one would tell me anything if I asked.
The next morning, I told the maid.
"I heard something behind the wall," I said.
She froze for one second. Then smiled too quickly.
"It was probably the wind," she said. "The west wing is old."
I looked at her carefully.
"You've heard it before, haven't you?"
She looked away.
"I don't ask questions," she whispered. "And neither should you."
Then she left the room quickly.
I started paying attention to the sounds.
At night, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway outside.
But no one was there when I looked.
Once, I heard whispers under the floor.
Another time, I found my shoes moved. Just slightly. From the right side of the bed to the left.
I thought maybe I was imagining it.
Until I saw the door.
It was at the end of the hall. Hidden behind a red curtain. I hadn't noticed it before.
It had no handle. Just a lock with six tiny circles.
The air near it was cold, like ice.
When I touched the door, my fingers burned.
And on the wood, I saw something carved:
"She never left."
That night, I couldn't stay still.
I walked to the dining hall. I thought maybe I would find Damien there.
He wasn't.
At breakfast the next morning, I sat across from Damien like always.
But this time, I asked.
"What's behind the locked door in the west wing?"
He froze.
Then slowly looked up.
"You've been wandering," he said.
I said nothing.
He placed his knife down gently. The sound it made on the plate was sharp.
"That door is none of your concern," he said.
"But there's humming. And someone carved a message—"
He stood up.
The guards behind him stepped forward at once.
I flinched.
He looked down at me like I had broken a rule.
"You are not here to ask questions," he said. "You are here to live. As her."
His voice was calm, but it cut through me.
"You signed your name," he added. "You agreed to become what I lost."
He turned to leave, but paused.
"If I hear you've been near that door again, I will lock you in the ice cellar for a week."
Then he was gone.
That night, the singing came back.
Louder this time.
And I heard something else with it.
A laugh.
A soft, childlike laugh. It seemed to be playing from a recorder. Someone was listening to the voices as it played.
But there were no children in the mansion.
The walls were cold. The windows fogged up.
I stood near the piano and waited for the sound to stop.
It didn't. Again, I didn't have much sleep that night.
The next morning, I tried to act normal.
I smiled. I played the piano. I wore the perfume.
But my hands were shaking.
And I knew Damien saw it.
Later in the garden, he walked beside me. He didn't speak for a long time.
Then he said, "Do you believe in ghosts?"
I looked at him.
"What?"
He smiled, but it wasn't kind.
"Because sometimes the past is louder than the present," he said.
And then he handed me a small silver key.
"For the piano bench," he said. "Maybe you'll find something that helps you remember more."
Then he walked away.
That evening, I used the key.
I opened the bench under the piano lid.
Inside was a box. Small, black, tied with a white ribbon.
I untied it.
Inside were photos.
Photos of Damien.
And of her.
And of someone else.
A baby.
My hands shook.
There were notes too. Letters with her handwriting.
But they were torn.
Most of them were only pieces.
One full one read:
"If you live a million years, you'll find me in every century and love me just the same."
My heart stopped.
And behind the last photo, there was a name.
"Lilith."
I had never heard it before.
But something about it made my whole body go cold.