The first night in the mansion did not arrive quietly.
It crept in like a shadow wearing velvet gloves, soft yet suffocating.
Belle sat by her new bedroom window, the moonlight spilling over her face, painting her features in silver and shadow. The house outside seemed alive; the ivy along the walls swayed as if breathing, and the ancient trees creaked like restless bones. Every gust of wind carried with it a sound—a faint whisper—that brushed against the glass.
Her parents were already asleep, exhausted from the move. But Belle couldn't rest. Something in the silence of the mansion didn't feel like silence at all. It felt… watched.
She wrapped her arms around herself and whispered, "It's just an old house. Nothing more."
But deep down, she didn't believe it.
Around midnight, she dozed off at last, her body heavy, her eyelids trembling. Yet even in sleep, she could not escape.
Belle dreamed—or perhaps she didn't dream at all.
She found herself standing in a long corridor lined with portraits, their painted eyes gleaming with strange life. The corridor stretched endlessly, each step echoing, hollow and heavy. Then she heard it:
A voice. Low, velvety, and impossibly close.
"Belle…"
She froze, her heart clenching. The sound wasn't frightening—it was hauntingly beautiful, like music sung at the edge of memory.
"Belle… you're here at last."
The shadows along the walls stirred, shaping into the outline of a tall figure. She could not see his face, only the glint of eyes that seemed to hold centuries of sorrow. His presence was powerful, magnetic, yet wrapped in loneliness so deep it nearly broke her.
Belle stepped back, breath catching. "W-who are you?"
The figure didn't answer, but his voice reached into her mind, whispering as though it had always lived there.
"I've waited for you… all this time."
Her pulse thundered. The world around her flickered like a candle. She wanted to scream, to run, but her body wouldn't obey. It felt as though invisible threads tied her soul to his.
Then suddenly—he moved. Or rather, the air itself wrapped around her. A ghostly hand brushed her cheek, though nothing visible was there. Warmth surged through her veins, a strange warmth for a presence that should have been cold.
Belle shivered, her lips parting. She didn't understand it—this presence frightened her, yet pulled her closer with an intimacy she had never known.
"You don't belong to them," the whisper coiled, soft yet firm. "You belong to me."
Her breath caught, and for a fleeting heartbeat, her chest ached—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to longing.
And then—she woke.
Belle's eyes flew open, gasping, her heart hammering against her ribs. The room was still. The window stood open, curtains fluttering though she swore she had closed it. The air was colder than it should have been, brushing her skin like fingers lingering too long.
She pressed her palm to her face, trembling.
"It was just a dream," she whispered.
But deep in her soul, she knew the truth.
Dreams don't leave the scent of old roses in the air.
And somewhere, in the hidden veins of the mansion, a voice chuckled—soft, broken, and waiting.