The door clicked shut.
And the moment it did, Celeste nearly collapsed.
Her knees faltered.
She couldn't breathe.
That man—the one she'd glimpsed in childhood, her father's brother—was now standing at the center of everything she'd been chasing.
It was as if the entire scaffolding of her emotions collapsed, the instant she saw him woven into the truth she thought she'd understood.
Luca rose slowly from his seat and approached.
"I can't leave you like this,"
he said gently—but his hand landed hard and firm.
"Let go."
Celeste tried to shake him off, but Luca didn't so much as flinch.
"Stop acting like you're above all this."
he murmured.
"You've already heard too much."
He gripped her by the shoulders and half-dragged her down the corridor.
The hall, stretching from the drawing room, was long and eerily silent.
Dark marble, ornate woodwork—it all echoed with aristocratic weight.
Even the morning air of Italy felt like a silent force pressing down on her.
They reached the guest room.
Without a word, Luca opened the door and pushed her inside.
"Take a moment to calm down."
He dropped into the armchair by the window, crossing one leg over the other.
After a pause, he studied her and spoke in a low, deliberate voice.
"…You'll come to realize soon—how much alike we truly are."
Celeste said nothing.
Her eyes remained glassy.
Her breath, shallow and trembling.
Luca didn't take his eyes off her.
"There's one more thing you must be wondering."
"…What?"
He looked her dead in the eye.
"Your ability."
The moment the words left his mouth—a jolt ripped through her like static.
Her fingertips went numb.
A chill climbed her spine.
"…So this is what it feels like."
Luca smiled.
"Heh… You're even cuter than I pictured. Honestly."
"When I first saw you use your skill—I was honestly thrilled. Knowing someone else out there was like me—that was… intoxicating."
Celeste inhaled sharply.
"…You… remember your past life, too?"
He gave a slow nod.
"When did it start?"
She asked.
Luca turned to the window as he answered.
"Twelve. That was the first time I pulled the trigger. And the moment I did—it was like a dam broke inside me. Every memory came rushing in."
"Twelve…? You killed someone at twelve?"
Celeste grimaced.
"What kind of life did you live?"
Luca chuckled, almost tenderly.
"I told you. You're surprisingly adorable."
"…What about you?" he asked.
Celeste drew in a shaky breath.
"Ten. That's when the dreams began. Over and over again. At first, I thought I was losing my mind. Explosions. Mud-soaked boots. Battles that never ended. Fields piled with corpses. Children—sobbing."
Her eyes shimmered.
Somewhere deep within her, a memory twisted tight.
"…You were on the battlefield?"
Luca's voice was quiet.
"Yeah. I was...were you...?"
Their eyes met—and in that silence, they both stared into the whirlpool of a past neither had fully escaped.
Both bore memories of war. But—
What roles they played on that battlefield…neither of them knew.
Not yet.
Just as Luca opened his mouth to speak again—a knock came at the door.
"Sir, it's time."
Luca clicked his tongue, annoyed.
He rose from the chair.
"Shame. We were finally getting somewhere. But no rush—we'll finish this later. Over dinner."
He walked to the door, hand on the knob.
Then paused—turned back—and with that signature leisurely smile, he murmured:
"…Be smart, sweetheart. One wrong move, and you'll be waking up in another lifetime."
Click.
The door shut.
And all that remained—was the silence.
And the soft, discordant echo of a past life, stirring in her chest like a war drum half-awake.