Elena's POV
I stood frozen in the château, staring at the rose petal in my trembling hand.
Someone had been here. Someone had taken my letter and left a new one. Someone who claimed to be 847 years old and wanted to meet me at midnight.
This was insane.
But the petal in my hand was real. Fresh. Like it had been picked this morning.
And the vision I'd seen when I touched it—those ancient, sad eyes—felt more real than anything in my broken life.
My phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number:
I know you're scared. I would be too. But E, I've been alone for so long. Your words were the first light I've seen in centuries. Please don't let me fade back into darkness. —A
My breath caught. How did they know I was reading the letter right now? How did they know I was scared?
I spun around, scanning the empty château. Dust motes floated in the sunlight. Silence pressed against my ears.
"Hello?" My voice echoed. "Is someone here?"
No answer.
I looked back at my phone. The message had been sent thirty seconds ago. Whoever wrote it was close. Had to be.
"I know you're watching me," I called out, my heart hammering. "Show yourself!"
Still nothing.
But then—a sound. Soft. Like footsteps on the floor below.
I grabbed the music box and ran.
Down the stairs, through the crumbling halls, out into the overgrown garden. I didn't stop until I reached the rusted gates at the edge of the property.
Only then did I look back.
The château stood silent and empty. No one followed me. No one appeared in the windows.
But I knew—knew—someone had been there.
My phone buzzed again:
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I should have explained better. I can't show myself in daylight. The curse... it's complicated. But midnight on the bridge—I promise I'll explain everything. I promise you're safe. —A
Can't show myself in daylight? What did that even mean?
Unless...
No. That was impossible. Vampires weren't real. Immortals weren't real. Magic wasn't—
My fingers tingled where I'd touched the rose petal. The vision flashed again. Those eyes. That loneliness.
My gift never lies.
The thought hit me like ice water. In twenty-seven years, every vision I'd ever had turned out to be true. When I touched my grandmother's pearl necklace, I saw my grandfather proposing. When I touched an old sword in a museum, I saw the battle where it was used. When I touched that music box—
I'd seen a woman hiding the letter centuries ago.
Centuries.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
What if it was all real?
I pulled out the first letter again, the one signed "A." Read it with new eyes:
"I have lived 847 years alone. I have watched empires fall and roses bloom and people I loved turn to dust in my arms."
Not poetry. Not metaphor.
Truth.
My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the letter. I needed to think. Needed to figure out if I was crazy or if the impossible was actually happening.
I needed Margot.
I burst into Margot's apartment an hour later, breathless from running from the train station.
"He's real," I gasped. "Margot, he's real. The letter writer. He answered me. He wants to meet. He says he's immortal and I think—I think he might actually be—"
Margot stood at the stove, stirring soup like I hadn't just declared something impossible. "Sit down, Elena."
"Did you hear me? Someone left me a letter claiming to be 847 years old and—"
"Sit down."
Something in her voice made me obey.
Margot set a bowl in front of me, then sat across the table. Her weathered hands folded together. "I need to tell you something. Something your grandmother made me swear never to tell."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"The Moreau family gift—your ability to see object histories—it's not natural talent." She took a deep breath. "It's magic. Real magic. Your family has had it for over thirty generations."
I stared at her. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" Margot's eyes were gentle but firm. "You've seen it your whole life, Elena. You just called it intuition. A gift. A trick of the mind. But you know the truth, don't you? Deep down?"
My throat was dry. "Magic isn't real."
"Then how do you explain the visions? How do you explain knowing things about objects that no one alive could possibly know?" She reached across the table, covering my shaking hands. "Your great-great-great-grandmother—so many greats back I've lost count—she was a powerful witch. The magic passed down through the women of your family."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Your grandmother feared it. After your parents died, she tried to bury the family history. Pretended it didn't exist. But the magic doesn't care what she wants. It chose you anyway."
My mind spun. "What does this have to do with—"
"With the letter writer?" Margot's expression grew grave. "Elena, if someone really has lived 847 years, there's only one explanation. They're cursed. And curses that powerful don't just happen. They're made by witches."
The room tilted. "You think my family cursed him?"
"I think it's possible." She squeezed my hands. "Which means you need to be very, very careful. If he's real, if he's really immortal, there's a reason. And that reason might have everything to do with your bloodline."
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed.
Another text:
Your grandmother knows about me. Ask her about Isabeau Moreau and the knight she cursed in 1178. Ask her what happens when a Moreau woman falls in love with the wrong man. Then decide if you still want to meet me. I'll understand if you don't. —A
My blood turned to ice.
Isabeau Moreau. 1178.
I looked at Margot. "Do you know that name?"
Her face went white. "Oh no. Elena, no. It can't be—"
"What?"
She stood abruptly, pacing. "Isabeau Moreau was your ancestor. The story says she fell in love with a knight and her mother cursed him for stealing her daughter. The curse made him immortal but..." She trailed off.
"But what?"
Margot turned to me, fear in her eyes. "But everyone he loves dies. That's the curse. He lives forever, watching everyone he cares about die tragically. And it can only be broken by—"
"By what?" My voice was barely a whisper.
"By a Moreau descendant who willingly sacrifices herself."
The world stopped.
The letter writer wasn't just immortal. He was cursed by my family. And if I met him, if I got involved, I might be the only person who could save him.
Or the only person who could die trying.
My phone buzzed one last time:
Midnight. Pont des Arts bridge. Your choice, E. But know this—I would never ask you to save me. I just wanted to meet the person who made me feel human again. Whatever you decide, thank you for writing back. Thank you for seeing me. —A
I had six hours to decide.
Meet a cursed immortal who my family destroyed.
Or walk away and let him suffer alone for another 847 years.