Chapter Five — Threads of the Past
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Evelyn — The Search Begins
Morning broke with a dull, colorless light as Evelyn paced her study, the creak of the floorboards the only sound breaking the silence. In one hand, she clutched the strange letter that had arrived the previous night—its ink still hauntingly fresh. In the other, she held a small silver locket, dulled by time but etched with memories too sharp to forget.
Her eyes, hollowed by a sleepless night, shimmered with emotions she had long kept buried—fear, longing, fury. It had been years since anyone had touched that part of her soul, and now, in a single stroke of fate, the past clawed its way to the surface.
"Find out who delivered the painting," she snapped, turning to her steward. "I want names. I want faces. I want answers."
The steward bowed his head, trembling. "My lady, there was no carriage. No crest. No seal. Nothing to trace."
Evelyn's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Then look harder."
She turned away before the tears could betray her.
The letter's words echoed through her skull like a hymn from a forgotten church:
> You said the stars would one day write our names together…
For years, she had trained herself not to weep. Not for politics. Not for pain. But this—this shattered the veneer. Her fingers trembled as she traced the edge of the locket, inside of which was a faded sketch of a young man with haunted eyes.
That evening, over dinner, Lord Adrian took notice of her silence.
"You're distracted," he said curtly, sipping his wine. "Is some ghost haunting you again, Evelyn?"
She looked up, her expression a careful mask. "A shadow, perhaps. But some shadows don't fade with time. They follow you."
Adrian scoffed and returned to his meal, oblivious.
But Evelyn had already withdrawn into herself.
That night, after the manor had gone still, she unlocked the old trunk at the foot of her bed. Inside lay a trove of memories—faded letters, pressed flowers, ink-stained journals.
She opened a worn journal and began tracing back the places Dorian used to write from—the Greyborne ruins, the Moon Garden, the gallery where he had once displayed her portrait with trembling hands and star-struck eyes.
Somewhere in her mind, she whispered his name. And somewhere, he heard it.
He wanted her to search.
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Dorian — The Second Trap
Beneath the vaulted ceilings of Greyborne Manor, shadows danced like old ghosts. Dorian stood in the hall where his ancestors had once toasted their victories—and where he had buried his own defeats.
He wore black velvet trimmed in silver, a midnight figure of silence. His gloved fingers opened an ornate oak case, revealing a letter sealed in blood-red wax.
This one, unlike the last, was not meant to stir nostalgia.
It was meant to test her.
Inside the envelope lay a single page—a poem, sharp as broken glass—and an ancient map, yellowed with age, marked with a silver X. The location: the abandoned chapel near the Greyborne woods, where, once upon a time, Evelyn had whispered vows beneath rose-draped stone.
The poem read:
> Do you remember what you promised me beneath the rose-vined altar?
Before you forgot the way my hands trembled at your touch?
If you wish to forget, burn this map.
But if you still feel what I once was to you—
Follow the stars. I'll be waiting.
—Yours, always, never again.
He sealed the contents in a black envelope and dispatched it through an anonymous courier.
Then he made his way to the chapel.
Time had not been kind to the old sanctuary. Its stained glass was fractured, its altar covered in dust. But Dorian brought life back to it—not through prayers, but through memory.
He lit candles—dozens of them—each placed exactly where she once stood, smiled, kissed.
He perfumed the air with white rose and sandalwood, the scent that once clung to her hair and now lingered in his dreams.
Finally, he placed a mirror at the altar—the one she had gifted him on their last Midsummer together.
And he waited.
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Evelyn — The Discovery
The envelope arrived at dawn, its contents cryptic and cruelly intimate.
Evelyn's breath caught as she unfolded the parchment. The poem hit her like a whisper across a grave.
> Before you forgot the way my hands trembled at your touch…
Her fingers gripped the map. She didn't hesitate.
She told no one—not Adrian, not even her maid. This wasn't for them.
At dusk, she rode alone.
The path was familiar, though long untouched. Moss grew over the cobblestones, ivy clawed the archways. But her memory guided her. Each step forward peeled away the years.
And when she reached the chapel, her breath left her.
Candles flickered like constellations. The scent of roses clung to the air like a ghost's kiss.
Then—she saw him.
Dorian.
Older now. Sharper. A man forged by pain, dressed in mourning and shadows.
He stood before the mirror, hands folded behind his back, as though he'd been painted into the moment.
Slowly, he turned to face her.
"Dorian…" Her voice trembled.
"I wondered if you'd come," he said, voice low and calm as snowfall.
She stepped forward, every movement a battle against the rush of memory. "Why now?"
He studied her as if she were an art piece long believed destroyed. "Because you broke something in me. And I've spent every year since… painting it back together."
Silence bloomed like frost.
She dared another step. "You said you'd never stop loving me."
His gaze darkened. "I didn't." A pause. "I only stopped needing you."
The words struck like a lash. But Evelyn didn't retreat.
In her eyes flickered grief, guilt—and something far more dangerous.
Tentatively, she reached out and touched his arm.
"I still remember your touch," she whispered.
Dorian leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. His voice dropped into something that tasted like a curse and a promise all at once.
"You're meant to."