The estate of House Thorne never slept completely. Even when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the ancient stone halls, the wind whispered through corridors, rustling curtains and shaking the lanterns just enough to keep the flames anxious.
Caelum learned this the hard way—through sleepless nights.
The mattress beneath him was too soft, too cloud-like, far from the stiff bed he'd known back in his world. And the quiet? It wasn't true silence. It was pregnant with tension. Like the estate itself was holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to snap.
That someone, of course, was Elowen Thorne.
Or rather, it was supposed to be.
The novel had described her at this age as an unstable, haunted girl. Sharp-tempered. Cold. Distant. A storm waiting to become a hurricane.
But the girl Caelum had spent time with these past few days was nothing like that. Sure, her powers crackled just beneath her skin—he'd seen it when she got startled, and the air around her shimmered—but she was also kind, curious, even a little awkward when she laughed.
Today, he'd noticed her watching the birds outside the window with a longing look. When he waved a hand to mimic their flapping wings, she giggled. Actually giggled.
No, she wasn't the monster everyone whispered about.
But they still whispered.
Caelum had been on his way to the kitchen for some late-night fruit when he heard it: two maids murmuring in a side hallway, half-hidden by velvet drapes.
"She went to the garden again tonight," one whispered. "Same time."
"The abandoned one?"
"She always goes there. No one follows."
"Because they're afraid. What if she curses someone again?"
"She doesn't need to curse. They say she talks to shadows. Laughs when she's alone."
Caelum's eyes narrowed, but he didn't step in. Instead, he turned and made his way quietly toward the back entrance of the estate.
The abandoned garden. He'd seen it once through a cracked window—a tangle of ivy and half-dead roses, fenced in by rusted wrought iron. It looked like a place forgotten by time. He hadn't realized Elowen went there regularly.
The air grew colder as he approached the outer path. Mist clung to the grass in thin coils, curling around his boots. The moon was a sliver in the sky, casting just enough light to see.
He found the gate to the garden slightly ajar.
Beyond it, under the twisted branches of a gnarled tree, sat Elowen.
Her back was to him, and her hair—silver like moonlight—spilled down her shoulders like a waterfall. She wasn't doing anything overtly magical. No sparks. No glowing eyes.
She was... whispering.
Not in fear. Not in anger.
It was more like she was telling a story to someone she couldn't see. Her fingers traced symbols in the dirt, slow and careful. The wind circled her like it was listening.
For a moment, Caelum hesitated. He didn't want to break whatever spell she was weaving—not a magical one, but something deeper. Something gentle.
Then he stepped forward.
"You come here to talk to ghosts or flowers?" he asked softly.
Elowen jumped slightly but didn't scream. She turned her head, and when her eyes found his, they were unusually clear.
"No one else comes here," she replied.
"Maybe that's why I did."
Caelum walked toward her and sat down without asking. The ground was damp, but he didn't care.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said.
"You didn't," she replied. Then, after a pause, "I talk to the wind. It doesn't judge."
Caelum tilted his head. "That's poetic. Are you secretly a poet?"
She frowned. "No."
"That's exactly what a poet would say."
Elowen rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. "It's quiet here. And the wind remembers everything."
Caelum blinked. "Wind has memory?"
"It's always listening. It's seen things... felt things. That's why I come here. It's like... it understands."
He watched her fingers as she pressed them into the soil again, drawing a lazy spiral.
"You're not what they say you are," Caelum said quietly.
"I know," she murmured. "But it doesn't matter. People believe what they want."
"Then I'll believe something different."
Her hand stilled.
He meant it.
The girl next to him wasn't a villainess. Not yet. Not unless the world pushed her into becoming one. And maybe—not just maybe—he could be the reason that didn't happen.
They sat in silence after that, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable but... still. And somehow, comforting.
Then a sudden breeze swept through the garden.
Elowen didn't move, but Caelum felt it: cold, strange, almost purposeful. It passed over them and then... his coat shifted.
He looked down.
His notebook—his own, the one he'd been writing thoughts in since transmigrating—had slipped halfway out of his coat pocket.
Another gust of wind flipped it open.
To a page he hadn't written on.
In small, neat handwriting—not his own—were three words:
"She is watching."
Caelum's heart skipped. He looked up at Elowen, but she was still tracing the ground, oblivious.
"Do you... feel anything weird?" he asked carefully.
She nodded. "The garden listens. It always has. But tonight, it's curious."
"Curious?"
She smiled softly, almost playfully. "Maybe it's because you're here."
He laughed, trying to push away the unease. "I must be terribly interesting."
"You are," she said seriously.
Their eyes met.
Something about the way she said it made him feel like she wasn't talking about him in general—but about this version of him. Like she could sense he wasn't quite the Caelum she remembered.
She turned away quickly, maybe flustered. "You're different than before."
"Different bad?"
"Different... better."
Caelum smiled. "You're different too, you know."
She tilted her head. "How so?"
"You're a lot more playful than the books said."
Her eyes narrowed. "Books?"
"Ah—nothing. Just something I... overheard."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't press.
Instead, she said, "Come again tomorrow?"
"To the haunted garden?" Caelum teased. "Risk being cursed?"
"Maybe you already are," she said with a mischievous glint in her eye.
He stood up and offered her a hand. "Then I'd rather be cursed with you."
She hesitated, then took his hand.
Her fingers were cold, but when their palms touched, the wind stilled. The garden fell quiet.
And somewhere deep in his chest, Caelum felt it—that undeniable, impossible feeling:
This world was starting to change.
And so was he.