She woke to the sound of bells.
Not an alarm clock or digital beep—actual bells. Deep, echoing, and coming from somewhere in the mansion. They rang for a full minute before stopping, as if announcing something—or someone.
Sunlight bled through the thick velvet curtains, soft and golden. Amira sat up, disoriented, her head heavy and her body stiff from a restless night. She reached for her phone. Still dead. No service. No Wi-Fi. Not even a charging outlet in the room. Just her reflection staring back from the windowpane.
She opened the wardrobe. The clothes inside were new, elegant, and tagged in her size. Had someone bought them for her? Or had they always been there?
She pulled open the door to find a tray outside her room—coffee, a boiled egg, fruit slices. No one in sight. No note.
Down the hallway, she passed tall, arched windows framed by thick drapes. The light that filtered in was strange—hazy and low, as though it didn't quite belong to the sun. The silence of the house pressed into her ears. No birds. No wind. Just the occasional creak of wood.
The dining room was a masterpiece—an ornate ceiling mural, antique chandeliers, and a fireplace taller than she was. The table stretched endlessly, with enough settings for thirty guests. Yet she was still alone.
She took a hesitant bite of bread. It was warm, perfectly baked. Nothing about it tasted off. Yet she couldn't shake the unease crawling up her spine. The silverware beside her bore an engraving: an intricate crest with two interlocked rings and the letter "K."
Footsteps approached. She turned.
The same woman from last night—regal, rigid, and holding a clipboard—entered.
"The bride is dressing. You will meet her in the garden."
"The bride's name?" Amira asked.
"You may address her as Miss. All other details are not necessary."
"But I need to know what kind of style she wants, the mood of the shots, the—"
"Miss does not concern herself with details. Only that you perform your role."
Before Amira could ask anything else, the woman turned and began walking.
They passed through a conservatory filled with roses—red, white, and deep plum. No bees. No insects. Just pristine, perfect silence. Vines curled in shapes that looked almost… intentional. Like script.
"Do you always host weddings here?" Amira asked.
The woman gave a thin smile. "Only for those who are chosen."
Amira felt her stomach drop.
They stepped into a courtyard paved with ancient stones. In the center stood a crimson canopy held up by silver poles, draped with sheer curtains that swayed gently.
And under it—the bride.
Her back was to them. A white veil billowed around her shoulders. Her gown was vintage, lace-layered, and stunningly detailed. Hand-sewn pearls caught the light like dewdrops.
She didn't move.
Amira approached, cautiously. "Hello? I'm Amira. The photographer."
The bride turned slowly.
Her face was pale. Porcelain. Her lips painted the color of wine. Her eyes—startlingly blue and unblinking—held no warmth, no familiarity. She stared at Amira as if looking through her.
No greeting. No smile.
The older woman spoke for her. "She does not speak until the ceremony."
"Is that… a tradition?"
A pause. "Yes."
Amira lifted her camera to break the tension, snapping a few test shots. But through the lens, something shifted. The bride's face seemed… wrong. Smudged at the edges. Like a reflection in water.
She blinked and looked again.
Now the bride was still. Perfectly still.
Amira glanced at her screen. The last photo showed the bride smiling.
But in real life, her face had not moved.
Her heart beat faster. She lowered the camera.
"I'd like to take some shots near the stone path," Amira said.
The bride didn't respond. But the woman gave a single nod.
As Amira walked ahead, something caught her eye—stone markers hidden in the garden walls, partially overgrown with moss. Each had a pair of initials and dates… all scratched out.
One had a carving that read A.L. before the weathering blurred it.
She felt dizzy. The air was too still. Too quiet. And suddenly, even the birdsong she hadn't noticed was missing.
When she turned back, the bride was already standing behind her.
Too close.
She gasped.
The bride tilted her head slightly, almost curious.
Amira raised the camera again. Her hands were shaking now.
This wasn't just a photo shoot.
Something was deeply, dangerously wrong.