Chapter 1: A Whisper in the Fog
The Baron has never been prone to sentiment. His world consisted of clear lines, the smell of old leather and the muted hum of London streets penetrating through the thick walls of his house in Chester Square. At the age of sixteen, he already felt like an adult, burdened with responsibilities that he could not explain even to himself. His father, a stern and taciturn man, had long since left him in the care of a tutor, Mr. Fielding, whose history and Latin lessons were just background noise for Peter in his eternal pursuit of something elusive.
That evening, when the fog enveloped London like a soft blanket, Peter sat in his office, surrounded by books and old maps. He looked out the window, where the streets disappeared into a whitish cloud, and felt his thoughts slipping away like smoke from a cigarette. Suddenly, he felt a tingling sensation in his chest–it was a premonition that something important was about to happen. He closed the book he couldn't concentrate on and headed to his room.
Lying in bed, he listened to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. The room was in semi-darkness, with only a faint moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains. Peter was not asleep, but rather dozing, immersed in his usual melancholy. And then she appeared.
She did not enter the room, did not flash in the doorway. She just was. At first it was just a faint light filtering through the veil of sleep, then the contours,
She did not enter the room, did not flash in the doorway. She just was. At first it was just a faint light breaking through the veil of sleep, then the contours taking shape. Her raven-colored hair spread across the pillow like a silk waterfall. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain, and seemed to glow in the dim light. And the eyes… Oh, those eyes! They were the color of a stormy sky before dawn, deep, full of some ancient sadness and at the same time sparkling with unspoken fun.
Peter couldn't move. His body, which was usually so naughty when it came to studying, was now bound by invisible chains. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped bird, and his breathing became ragged. It was unlike ordinary dreams, where images flickered and disappeared, leaving only a vague aftertaste. This girl was real, so real that Peter could almost smell the scent of her hair, subtle, barely perceptible, like the scent of spring flowers after rain.
She smiled, and that smile lit up the room brighter than the moonlight. The smile was gentle, a little shy, but there was a power in it that could melt the ice in his young heart. She held out her hand to him, and Peter felt his own hand involuntarily reach out to meet her. Their fingers almost touched, but at the last moment she pulled hers back. A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, and Peter felt a pang of pain, as if his own heart had been hurt.
"Who are you?" – he whispered, but the words stuck in his throat, becoming an indistinct sound.
She didn't answer. Instead, she got out of bed, her movements smooth and graceful like a dancer's. She went to the window and looked out at the fog enveloping London. Peter saw her silhouette against the background of a whitish veil, and in that moment he realized that he had never seen anything more beautiful.
"You must not forget me," her voice sounded, soft but distinct, like a bell ringing in the morning air. –Never."
And then, as suddenly as she appeared, she began to disappear. Her contours became blurred, and the light dimmed. Peter reached out, trying to hold her back, but his fingers went through nothing. The last thing he saw were her eyes, full of the same mysterious sadness, and a light, almost weightless smile.
Peter sat up abruptly in bed, breathing heavily. The room was empty, except for the moonlight that still filtered through the curtains. His heart was still pounding, but now there was a strange feeling mixed in with it–not fear, but rather anticipation. He knew it wasn't just a dream. It was the beginning of something new, something that would change his world forever. He looked down at his hands, as if expecting to see the imprint of her touch on them. But there was only his own skin, cold and pale.
He got up and went to the window. The fog still hung over the city, hiding it from view. But Peter saw him differently now. He saw