The next morning was quieter.
Sunlight spilled through the windows, warm and slow. The apartment smelled faintly of toast and brewed tea. Amy stood at the stove again — hoodie sleeves pushed up, pan in hand — when Risa yawned her way into the room.
Lumi followed, rubbing one eye. "I still think I dreamed it," she muttered, flopping into a chair.
"I didn't," Amy said, voice soft, steady.
They sat down together, hair messy, legs tangled under the table, passing plates and dipping toast into eggs and hash. Conversation drifted, looping from the party to weekend plans, then back to the date again. But it was different now — settled, real.
Eventually, Risa stood, stretching. "Okay, okay. I should head out before my dad starts tracking my phone."
"Same," Lumi sighed, already tying up her hair. "Text us when you get there, okay?"
"I will."
Risa hugged her tightly. "Sunday. Don't overthink it."
Lumi smirked and poked her side. "And wear something that says 'I'm cute, but I bite.'"
Amy rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself.
They left with waves and soft goodbyes, and the apartment fell quiet again — the kind of quiet that comes after something important.
Amy changed out of her pajamas, tied her hair back, and grabbed the keys.
The Velvet Specter was already waiting in the building's underground garage — regal and silent, chrome winking in the overhead lights.
She ran a hand along the side as she passed.
The sky outside was still pale with morning, streaked with high clouds. Amy set her course toward the edge of the city, where buildings thinned out and memories lived in stone and glass.
She drove with purpose now.
Because today… she wasn't chasing feelings or chances.
She was chasing the past.
And it was waiting for her, just a little farther down the road.
She turned off the main road and followed a long, winding path flanked by rows of low blue-leaf hedges — now slightly overgrown. The land opened up gradually, revealing it in full:
A mansion, but not one of sprawling excess. Refined, quiet, and utterly intentional.
The house rose two and a half stories tall, built in a minimalist neo-futurist style — smooth white composite stone and alloy-carbon paneling framed by curved structural lines. Its design merged beauty with utility: large arching windows made of smart glass, soft LED outlines embedded discreetly along the frame for low-light visibility, and matte solar skin on the roof — subtle, efficient, and self-sustaining.
The façade had a symmetry to it: a central double-door entry beneath a shaded archway, flanked by two narrow towers, more for aesthetic balance than function. Despite sitting unused for over a year, it didn't feel abandoned — only waiting.
A set of shallow steps led to the entrance, flanked by embedded floor-level lights that activated as their motion triggered the long-dormant systems. The front garden, designed with native drought-resistant flora and a few fruit trees in programmable planters, had grown wild but not chaotic. The lawn was trimmed by auto-shears — their service base still blinking faintly beneath a patch of ivy.
To the right of the mansion stood the side garage: sleek, matte black with a reinforced retractable door. It was large enough for two cars but cleverly disguised to look smaller, with a soft ridge line that curved seamlessly into the landscaping. A biometric panel blinked softly on the side — the one Amy had set up years ago with her grandmother, though she'd barely remembered it until this moment.
Above the house, discreet aerial sensors followed motion, pinging softly in system reboot — waking up after their long sleep.
The entire property was surrounded by a living fence: dense programmable hedges and trees designed for both aesthetics and security, creating a natural-looking perimeter that could shift its density depending on season and privacy preferences.
It wasn't a fortress.
But it could become one.
The Velvet glided silently into the garage, its matte-black frame gleaming faintly under the motion-activated overhead lights, and the Lilac Ghost parked precisely in its spot, soft blue paint catching glints of light like a silk-draped shadow. Amy parked it in the usual spot, right beside the faded yellow line her grandmother had painted decades ago to mark the center. The air inside the garage smelled faintly of old oil, lemon polish, and time — not decay, but preservation. Everything here had been kept in perfect condition, as though waiting for her.
She stepped out of the vehicle, the sound of her boots echoing softly on the polished stone floor. Behind her, the garage door sealed shut with a gentle hiss. Amy walked past the family's old utility shelves and up the short flight of stairs leading to the side path that curved around to the main entrance.
The front of the house stood tall and dignified, like a quiet monarch. Dark wood beams framed alabaster-white walls, accented with slanted tiled eaves that blended Japanese and Northern European architecture into something wholly unique. Ivy curled deliberately across carved panels, and a set of lantern-like sconces illuminated the steps leading up to a broad, lacquered double-door carved with a delicate motif: stars wrapped in waves.
Amy paused.
She hadn't come through this door in eighteen years — not like this, anyway. Not as someone still living.
She placed her hand on the biometric scanner embedded in the side panel. The system chirped once in recognition. The door creaked open, revealing the foyer.
The scent hit her instantly — sandalwood, faint jasmine, and the grounding aroma of earth from the garden beyond. The atrium stretched above her; three stories tall with a ceiling like a dome of night: a high-tech projection of constellations in slow, mesmerizing motion. Light glinted off the polished wooden floor as she stepped inside.
Waiting on the other side was a luminous silhouette.
"Welcome home, Amy," said the AI butler with a respectful bow. The holographic figure was elegant — androgynous, robed, with glimmers of digital stardust dancing across their form. "Lady Nyxara's last parameters have been restored. The residence is fully online. Do you wish to enable full-home access or visitor mode?"
"Full access," Amy murmured, not breaking stride.
Amy didn't linger. She moved past the living room, silent and soft, and turned toward the far hall — to the studio.