The morning came in slow, reluctant hues—all gray and gold, like it too was unsure if it belonged here.
Eveline stood at the window, watching the garden wilt in silence. The roses were still blooming, but not for her. They faced the wrong way, toward a sun that no longer shone.
Behind her, Rowan stirred—but did not speak.
"Do you believe," she asked finally, "that we were ever allowed to be happy?"
"Once," he said. "Before we made the promise."
"What promise?"
He looked at her then—really looked. And in his eyes, Eveline saw a sorrow so old it had outlived grief.
"That we would find each other," Rowan whispered. "No matter what time tried to steal."
"And the cost?"
He turned back to the window. "Everything."
Later, Eveline wandered the east wing—the one no one entered anymore. The floors creaked like they remembered her footsteps. The wallpaper curled like skin peeling from forgotten stories.
In the final room, she found a portrait she had never seen before.
It was her.
Only—but not quite.
The eyes were sharper. The mouth, set. She wore black, not gold. And in her hand… she held the same letter Eveline had found.
Below the painting, a plaque:
"Lady Eveline Harrow — 1863. She loved beyond reason. And reason took her back."
"There's always another version of you living inside the walls," she thought.
"The one who didn't forgive. The one who opened the door too soon. The one who never let go."
She touched the frame. Dust clung to her fingertips. And for a moment, the painted eyes seemed to blink.
She stepped back.
And the door slammed shut behind her.
Panic twisted in her chest.
"Rowan?" she called.
No answer.
Only the sound of a ticking clock—one that didn't exist in this wing.
The light shifted.
The portrait began to change.
The paint bled.
Now the woman in the painting was smiling—but not kindly.
It was a warning.
A mirror.
A curse.
Then a whisper from the shadows, barely a breath:
"He didn't tell you everything."
"There was someone before you."
"And she remembers."
When Rowan finally found her, Eveline was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, breathing hard—like she had run from something unseen.
"I think I saw… her. Me. The other one."
He knelt beside her.
"I should have told you everything."
"Then tell me now."
Rowan closed his eyes, as if to steady time itself.
"Before you, there was another life. Another you. One who wasn't gentle. One who made a different vow. She loved me so much, she tried to trap time itself. To keep us here—forever."
"What happened to her?"
"She never left this house."
Eveline shivered.
" And now?"
"Now… she wants her story back."
That night, Eveline stood in front of the cracked mirror once more.
This time, the other Eveline was waiting.
No longer silent.
She opened her mouth—no stitches. No fear.
"I burned for him," she said. "And he let me."
"You are not me," Eveline whispered.
"No," the reflection replied. "But I was. And I remember everything you chose to forget."
Then the mirror lit with flame.
And Eveline was alone again.