The next morning, I woke up to an eerie stillness.
Not silence. The world itself was still breathing. Birds chirped beyond the windows. Footsteps echoed faintly in the hall. Somewhere in the distance, water trickled in a marble fountain.
But something was off.
Like the house was holding its breath.
The kind of stillness that comes before a storm.
The room they'd given me was absurdly luxurious. Polished stone floors. Silk curtains. A writing desk that looked more expensive than my old car. Even the bed felt too soft, like it was trying to swallow me whole.
It should have felt like a dream.
But I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Elowen.
The way she'd looked at me when I held her hand. Like she didn't understand what kindness was. Like no one had ever touched her without fear.
I sat up and glanced at the far corner of the room. The black book wasn't there. It hadn't come with me. And that meant one of two things:
Either I was dreaming… or this was real.
I wasn't sure which option scared me more.
Later that morning, a knock came at the door.
A maid entered—mid-twenties, rigid posture, pale as porcelain.
"Lady Morwenna requests your presence for tea," she said.
I blinked. "Lady Morwenna?"
"Elowen's mother."
Ah. Right. The villainess's charming parent. I remembered her from the novel—strict, distant, and always obsessed with appearances. She was one of the reasons Elowen grew up the way she did. Always locked away. Always controlled.
This would be fun.
The tea room was a sunlit chamber filled with polished glass, white roses, and people pretending to enjoy each other's company. Lady Morwenna sat at the center like a queen presiding over judgment. Tall, elegant, and icy. Her beauty had a sharpness to it, like a blade dressed in silk.
And beside her, sitting quietly, was Elowen.
No frayed dress today. They'd dressed her in silver and lavender—clothes befitting a noble child. But she looked even more uncomfortable now than she had barefoot in the garden. Like she didn't belong in her own skin.
The moment I stepped in, her eyes flicked to mine.
And her hand, hidden in her lap, twitched.
I almost smiled.
She remembered.
"You must be Caelum," Lady Morwenna said with a tone that suggested she already disliked me. "Your arrival was… unannounced."
I bowed awkwardly. "Sorry about that."
"Indeed. Your family's letter mentioned you would be staying for some time."
"Right. They said it'd be good for me. Change of pace, and all that."
She didn't smile. Not even a twitch.
Elowen looked at me like I'd grown two heads.
It hit me then—I didn't know Caelum's family. I didn't know his backstory beyond what little the novel gave. Just that he was a minor noble's son who was sent to this estate for "health reasons."
Whatever that meant.
"Well," Morwenna said at last, folding her hands. "Do stay out of trouble."
That was it. No warmth. No welcome.
She didn't even offer tea.
Later that day, I found Elowen in the garden again.
She wasn't sitting under the tree this time. She was pacing. Slow, aimless steps. Her hands were folded behind her back again, and her eyes were distant, almost… hollow.
I stepped onto the grass.
She turned immediately.
"You came back," she said softly.
"Of course I did."
"Why?"
I tilted my head. "Why wouldn't I?"
"They usually don't."
That sentence shouldn't have hit as hard as it did.
We sat beneath the same tree as yesterday.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
She picked at the petals of a white flower growing beside her. Carefully. Almost reverently. As though it might bite if she wasn't gentle enough.
"…It wasn't just your hand," she said at last.
"Hm?"
"Yesterday. When you touched me. Nothing happened. No headache. No… pressure."
She looked at me then, really looked. Like I was something unnatural. A glitch in a cursed world.
"I don't understand it," she whispered. "You're not like the others."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I don't know," she said. "But it's dangerous."
I leaned back against the tree, arms behind my head. "You don't seem dangerous."
"You don't know me."
"Don't need to. I trust my gut."
She stared at me for a moment.
"…You're weird."
"Thanks. I try."
She smiled.
A real one this time. Shy, almost confused by its own existence—but real.
Over the next few days, I made a habit of visiting the garden.
I told jokes. Told stories. Some were from my world. Others were made up on the spot. Elowen never laughed out loud, but her eyes would crinkle at the corners. She'd sit a little closer each day.
Sometimes, she'd ask questions. Strange ones.
"Do you believe in fate?"
"Do stars die?"
"Do you think monsters know they're monsters?"
I answered the best I could.
And every time I did, I saw the tiniest piece of her relax. Like she'd been waiting her whole life to hear someone say things that weren't warnings or orders or fearful prayers.
One morning, I found her drawing.
Not in the garden. In the hallway near the west wing—where the stone walls turned cold and empty, abandoned by decoration. She was crouched near the floor with a piece of charcoal, scribbling furiously on the stone.
I peeked over her shoulder.
It was a creature. A mix of deer and crow and fox, drawn with too many eyes and too many wings. Yet somehow… it felt beautiful. Wild and strange and free.
"That's incredible," I said.
She jumped and tried to hide it.
"I wasn't—! I mean, I shouldn't—" She fumbled the charcoal.
I picked it up and handed it back.
"You're really good, Elowen."
She blinked. "You… said my name."
I tilted my head. "Should I not have?"
"No one ever does. They say it's cursed."
"Well," I said with a grin, "guess I'm cursed now, too."
She didn't smile.
Not this time.
Instead, she whispered, "You should be careful. They'll start to hate you, too."
I looked down at the drawing.
"I don't care what they think."
She was silent for a long time.
Then: "That's why I'm afraid."
That night, I dreamed of pages.
Endless pages, fluttering like wings. A book with no end. Its words rewritten, lines crossed out, replaced with new ones. And at the center of it all, a hand—not mine—turning the pages faster and faster, ink dripping from its fingertips like blood.
I woke up cold.
The story had changed.But I didn't know who was writing it anymore.