Chapter I: The Arrival
The road to Verrin Hollow had long forgotten the sound of carriage wheels.
When Lucien Vale's rig rattled over the old stones, the mist stirred like something waking from a deep slumber. The driver said nothing—only crossed himself as the manor abruptly emerged through the gray, its dark towers cutting into the fog like broken teeth.
Lucien leaned forward. Even through the blur of rain on glass, the stories had not lied. The house was not merely old; it looked haunted by its own memory. Ivy clung to the stone like fevered veins, and the air was heavy with the scent of salt and decay.
He stepped out when the horses halted, his boots sinking into wet earth. The wind off the cliffs carried the sound of the sea—a deep, ceaseless growl below. He tilted his face toward the manor, his breath visible, and smiled faintly.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Utterly ruined. Perfect."
Inside, the air was colder—a stagnant chill. His footsteps echoed through long, deserted halls where portraits lined the walls, faces half-faded, their eyes dull with dust. Each seemed to follow him. He trailed his fingers over a cracked frame, feeling the dried flakes of paint crumble.
In the grand hall, a chandelier hung low, its crystals choked with soot and draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The silence was profound enough to hear his heartbeat. He set his trunk—containing brushes, pigments, and a canvas blank as bone—beside the hearth. His exile had cost him everything. But here, at last, there was quiet. Here, he could paint without judgmental eyes watching.
He found the main staircase, each heavy step groaning beneath him. The second floor smelled faintly of oil and turpentine—the ghost scent of an artist's life. A door stood at the end of the corridor, its lock splintered.
Inside was a vast studio, dimly lit by the pale reflection of the sea. Dust motes swirled like frantic spirits in the thin light. Canvases, their subjects unfinished—blurred faces, trembling hands, eyes without pupils—leaned against the walls. And on an easel near the window, covered by a brittle, rotted sheet, stood something tall and hidden.
Lucien approached it, pulling the cloth away with a sharp tug.
The portrait beneath took his breath—a sudden, cold shock.
It was a woman, her face unfinished yet exquisitely haunting. Her eyes were colorless, the irises left blank; her lips halted mid-curve, as if she might have been about to speak before time froze her. Her dark hair fell in waves of shadow, and at her throat glimmered the faint outline of a pearl necklace. Even unfinished, the painting had too much life.
Lucien stepped closer, his pulse rising. He touched the edge of the frame, and a palpable wave of cold air—like a sharp intake of breath—brushed against his fingers.
Behind him, the studio door creaked slowly shut.
The wind had not followed him upstairs.
As the solitary candle in the room flickered, a whisper brushed the air, soft as breath against skin, yet distinct from the sea's roar:
"Lucien..."
He spun around. Nothing. Only the pressing glass of the window. But when he looked back at the painting, he could have sworn—just for that eternal instant—that the woman's blank lips had finally parted