Lorenzo had been walking for hours.

His camera, which usually felt like an extension of himself, hung cold and unused around his neck. He had wandered through streets and alleyways, over bridges and between buildings, waiting—hoping—to see something that would speak to his soul. Something that would stop his breath. Something worthy of the photography contest that had been on his mind for weeks.

But nothing did.

As the sun began its descent into the horizon, bathing the sky in hues of gold and rose, his hope started to waver. His legs were tired, his throat dry, yet something in him refused to give up.

“I’m not going home empty-handed,” he muttered under his breath.

Turning away from the main road, he followed a path he'd never taken before. It curved like a forgotten ribbon through an overgrown field and past a crumbling fence, leading him into what looked like an abandoned park. The iron gate stood slightly ajar, squeaking as he nudged it open with the tip of his boot. Vines curled along the railings, and wildflowers sprouted through the cracks in the pavement.

It was silent.

Too silent.

The trees here bloomed unnaturally, as if untouched by human presence for years. Their blossoms hung like whispers in the air, casting gentle shadows across the mossy ground. The whole place seemed drenched in some long-forgotten peace.

Lorenzo paused, feeling something shift inside him. A hush… a pull. Something was here.

He followed the faint sound of trickling water. A stream, maybe? The soft gurgle led him through a thicket of trees until it opened into a small clearing. There, beside a slow-moving river that reflected the dying sun like molten glass, she stood.

He froze.

She was facing away, her bare feet touching the edge of the water. Her hair cascaded down her back in waves of silver-white, glowing under the sunset like moonlight given form. And her eyes—when she finally turned—were violet. Deep, sorrowful, and almost glowing beneath the golden sky. Eyes that didn’t seem to belong to this world.

Lorenzo’s breath caught.

Without thinking, he raised his camera but didn’t click the shutter. He lowered it slowly and stepped forward.

“Excuse me…” he said, his voice careful, almost reverent. “I—I’m sorry to bother you. But… would you mind if I took your photo?”

The girl blinked. Her gaze remained unreadable as she tilted her head slightly, violet eyes studying him like he was something peculiar.

“I’ve been searching all day for something—someone—to capture,” Lorenzo continued, heart pounding. “You… you’re perfect. I mean—visually. It would only take a moment. Please?”

The girl said nothing. The silence between them stretched painfully long. She seemed... distant, like the wind might carry her away at any second.

Lorenzo took a nervous breath. “I swear I won’t ask for more than a few shots. It’s for a contest. You’d help me more than you could imagine.”

At last, she gave a small nod.

He didn’t understand why that made his chest tighten.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t move much. But when she turned fully toward him, the camera in his hands seemed to rise on its own.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Steady…”

Click.

The moment froze through the lens—the wind brushing her hair like water, her expression both curious and heartbreakingly sad.

Then she spoke. Her voice was soft, almost like it came from far away.

“How can you see me?”

Lorenzo blinked. “What?”

He lowered the camera.

But when he looked up—

She was gone.

Not a sound. Not a rustle of grass. Not even a shadow. The spot where she had stood was empty.

“Wait—hey!” Lorenzo spun around. “Where did you go?!”

His voice echoed through the clearing, but no one answered. He walked to the riverbank where she had been and turned in circles. His heart pounded in his chest. “Are you still here? What’s your name?”

Only the river answered him.

Then, as he stepped back, something crunched beneath his foot.

A small, delicate hairpin lay half-buried in the moss—a silvery thing shaped like a crescent moon, still warm from her presence.

He crouched and picked it up gently, staring at the fine craftsmanship, the shimmer of it in his palm. This wasn’t just an accessory—it was hers.

His hands trembled as he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Back in his apartment that night, Lorenzo sat on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone lighting up his face. He had posted the photo hours ago, just before sunset. Now it had exploded across social media.

His notifications buzzed non-stop.

Every comment was about the place.

“Where is this? It looks magical!”

“I need to visit! Please drop the location!”

“This place doesn’t feel real. How did you find it?”

But no one said a word about her.

Lorenzo scrolled, confusion knotting in his stomach.

“Not a single comment about the girl…?” he murmured.

He stared at the image again. She was so there—her eyes almost glowing, hair gleaming like polished snow. How could they not mention her?

He called Zyric.

“Ren! Congrats, man!” Zyric’s voice rang cheerfully on the other end. “Your post is everywhere. That shot is insane!”

“Thanks,” Lorenzo said quietly. “But—Zyric, did you see the girl in the photo?”

There was a pause. “What girl?”

Lorenzo frowned. “The girl by the river. The one I took the photo of.”

“You mean the scenery, right? Dude, the trees? The lighting? That’s some next-level natural beauty—like straight out of a fantasy movie.”

“No, I mean the girl. She was standing right there in the middle of the frame. Violet eyes. White hair. She’s the reason I took the shot.”

Another pause.

“…Are you feeling okay, Ren?”

Lorenzo’s throat dried.

“I—yeah. I just… I’ll call you later.”

He hung up.

His mind reeled.

How can you see me?

The question rang again in his ears, louder this time, sinking deeper. His head ached. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.

He reached into his jacket and took out the hairpin, placing it carefully on his table. It shimmered under the room’s dim light like it didn’t belong here—like it was a fragment of some other world.

Lorenzo stared at it.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

No answer.

He rubbed his temple and stood, heading to the bathroom. Maybe cold water would help. Maybe he just needed sleep. Maybe…

But deep inside, he knew this was no ordinary encounter. Something had changed. Something had awakened.

And he had a feeling—whatever this was, it was just beginning.

After hours spent trying to still the storm in his head, Lorenzo finally stepped out of the bathroom. Steam clung to the air like a veil, and droplets trickled down his skin. His hair, damp and tousled, stuck to his forehead. But it wasn’t the heat of the shower that left him breathless—it was everything he’d seen. Everything he couldn’t explain.

And then he froze.

By the window, the hairpin he had found earlier sat on the table. But it no longer looked ordinary. It glimmered, pulsing softly with a silvery light that danced like moonlight over water. Shadows on the walls shifted with its rhythm, like the heartbeat of something not quite alive.

A shiver traced his spine.

He stepped closer. The air around it felt... different. Dense. Humming.

Lorenzo hesitated, then reached out. The moment his fingers touched the metal, a searing light filled his vision.

A kingdom, vast and ancient, stretched across a sky painted with stars. Two figures stood beneath a crescent moon. One, a girl with hair like drifting snow. The other, cloaked in shadows, her eyes fierce with power. They argued. No sound reached him, but the storm of their emotions surged through his veins.

Then—

The pale-haired girl vanished in a swirl of silver mist.

The vision shifted.

A palace, draped in silence. A woman’s sobs echoed off stone. Servants stood frozen in grief. A crown lay discarded on marble steps.

Lorenzo gasped and dropped the pin. He staggered back, chest heaving. “What… was that ?”

He didn’t have long to wonder.

“That’s mine,” a voice said, calm and unmistakably close. “Give it back.”

He jumped at the sound, stumbling back as though the echo itself had struck him. His heart thundered in his chest, loud and wild. For a moment, he stood frozen—caught between dread and disbelief—until finally, with trembling breath, he turned to face the source.

She stood there.

The same ethereal figure from before—pale as moonlight, silent as snowfall. Her presence filled the room like a soft storm, calm and powerful all at once.

“You…” Lorenzo backed up a step. “How did you get in here?”

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “I can’t live without it,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a haunting sorrow. “It’s all I have left.”

“Don’t come any closer,” Lorenzo warned, grabbing the nearby stand like it might shield him from whatever magic surrounded her.

She halted immediately, hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace.

“I never meant to frighten you,” she said. “I came only for the hairpin. Please… it belongs to me.”

He held it tighter, the metal cool against his skin. “I’ll give it to you,” he said, “but only if you tell me who you are.”

Her violet eyes flickered, and silence fell like a curtain between them.

“I need to know,” he said again, more urgently. “I posted your photo. No one could see you—not even my best friend, Zyric. You asked why I can see you...Why can’t anyone else? Why me? I feel like I’m losing my mind. Please… I need the truth.”

He pressed his hands against his temples. “None of this makes sense. Not you, not the visions, not this world anymore.”

His voice cracked under the weight of his confusion, his fear.

She looked at him, and in that quiet moment, she understood. He deserved to know. After everything—after the visions, the silence, the impossible encounter—he had earned the truth.

Her eyes dropped, lashes casting shadows across her pale cheeks.

“Fine,” she whispered. “You deserve the truth.”

Lorenzo watched, heart thundering.

“I don’t belong to this world,” she said at last. “My name is Isolde Vales. I was the princess of Astrael, a realm that lives in the space between stars. In my kingdom, magic wasn’t hidden. It thrived. The sky shimmered with dragons. The sea whispered songs. The land breathed with power.”

A fragile smile flickered on her lips. “I loved it. Every corner of it. And I loved Alaika—my closest friend. My sister in all but blood.”

Her smile faded.

“But she… she changed. Or maybe I just never truly knew her. She was a witch. Strong. Secretive. And she loved someone who never looked her way.”

Lorenzo didn’t interrupt. He felt the air grow colder, as if her sorrow stretched into the room like frost.

“His name was Janeal,” she went on. “He was kind to me. Loyal. But I never returned his feelings. I told Alaika that. She didn’t care.”

Her hands curled into fists. “She thought if I vanished, he’d love her. So she cursed me. Banished me from Astrael. I became a ghost—adrift, caught between worlds. This realm is my prison.”

Her voice cracked. “And that hairpin… it’s all I have left. It was a gift from my grandmother. Enchanted. It lets me remember Astrael. Just glimpses. But even fragments are more than nothing.”

She lowered her eyes, arms wrapping around herself.

Lorenzo stepped forward. Slowly. Hesitantly.

He reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek.

Isolde flinched at first. Her breath hitched. But she didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For all of it.”

She said nothing. But something in her shoulders eased, just a little.

A silence settled between them—not awkward, but solemn. Shared.

Then—

The apartment’s doorbell rang.

Isolde startled. She stepped back like a deer hearing a hunter’s bow.

“Wait,” Lorenzo said quickly. “Please. Don’t disappear.”

Her gaze met his. For a moment, neither moved.

“I’ll be back,” he promised.

She gave a small nod.

And as he turned toward the door, he realized—for the first time since this all began—he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Lorenzo swung open the door—and barely had a second to react before Zyric shoved his way inside like a whirlwind.

“Ren! Dude! You will not believe this—” Zyric tripped over the rug, caught himself with a dramatic wobble, and flung a warm takeout bag onto the kitchen counter. “Victory pasta. Extra cheesy. You’re welcome.”

Lorenzo blinked. “You broke into my apartment… for pasta?”

“No,” Zyric said, grinning ear to ear, “I broke in because Professor George saw your post. The post. And he wants to meet you. In person. Tomorrow.”

Lorenzo froze. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious.” Zyric’s curls bounced as he nodded. “He said your photo felt... ‘otherworldly.’ Like it caught something that doesn’t exist in this world.”

Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat.

Zyric kept going, animated as ever. “He wants to talk about showcasing your stuff. Like, in a real exhibit. This is huge, Ren. You’re finally getting noticed!”

Lorenzo’s mind buzzed—part awe, part disbelief—and under it all, the steady pulse of Isolde’s story echoing through him.

She wasn’t just something he imagined. She wasn’t a glitch in a camera.

She was real.

And somehow, that truth had pulled him into something bigger than either of them.

Zyric noticed the faraway look in his eyes and frowned. “You okay, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Lorenzo shook himself. “I’m fine. Just… processing.”

Zyric grinned and pointed two finger guns at him. “Well, don’t think too hard. You’ve got twenty-four hours before you’re famous. Enjoy the mystery while it lasts. I gotta bounce. Alina’s already threatening violence if I’m late again.”

Lorenzo chuckled softly. “Go. Tell her I said good luck dealing with you.”

“She needs it,” Zyric winked. “Tomorrow night—we celebrate. Loud music, bad dancing, the works.”

“Looking forward to it.”

With one last mock-salute, Zyric bounded out the door, leaving Lorenzo in silence once more.

He turned and rushed toward his room.

Please still be here.

He swung the door open—and exhaled in relief.

Isolde stood near the window, her pale hair shimmering in the fading light, her gaze fixed on the photographs pinned to the wall.

“These… you took all of them?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Photography helps me feel like I’m part of something. Like I can show the world the way I see it.”

She nodded slowly. “They’re beautiful. They speak without sound.”

He unpacked the food Zyric had brought. He paused for a second, then plated some and carried it back to her.

“Here,” he said, offering the dish. “Zyric brought this—cheesy pasta bomb from that place on 4th Street. It’s not royal fare or anything, but… this is a thank-you.”

Isolde blinked. “Thank-you?”

“For being in the photo. For being real. For not disappearing.”

She looked down at the plate and then back at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You did. You gave that photo meaning. Professor George—he’s a famous photographer—he saw it and said it felt otherworldly. He wants to meet me because of you.”

Isolde was quiet for a moment. “Because of me…”

“You’re the reason I’m being seen. Even if they can’t see you, I know you’re the reason that picture looks the way it does.”

A quiet smile touched her lips. A real one this time. Not haunted. Just… soft.

She took the plate from his hands with gentle care.

“I don’t know if I should stay,” she said quietly.

“You can,” he said, voice steady. “If you trust me. I know you can’t trust me in just one day, but... in case there’s no one else who can see you—I want to know why me. And if there’s anything I can do for you. So you’re safe here. Really.”

She looked at him for a long moment, violet eyes full of emotion.

“And if there’s no way back to Astrael?”

“Then you won’t be alone.”

She sat down, the weight of her story settling between them like dust. They ate quietly, the tension easing into a fragile peace.

After dinner, Lorenzo rummaged through a drawer and handed her an old T-shirt and a pair of loose trousers.

“Here,” he said. “Not exactly royal, but it’s something.”

She accepted them with a nod and disappeared into the bathroom.

He waited, unsure what to do with himself. The room still carried her presence—even in silence, it felt different. Warmer. Realer.

When she returned, Lorenzo looked up—and immediately looked away.

She wore his oversized clothes like a cloak, her long silver hair damp and curling at the ends. The magical hairpin now rested in place once more, pulsing faintly.

Her eyes, no longer just haunted, glowed with something steadier.

Hope.

“You can sleep in my room,” he said quickly. “I’ll take the couch.”

Isolde stepped forward. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I want to.”

A pause. Then she nodded.

He handed her an extra pillow and walked to the door.

“You’re safe here,” he said before closing it gently behind him.

The couch wasn’t exactly comfortable, but Lorenzo didn’t care.

He lay in the quiet, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts racing through everything she’d said.

Dragons. Betrayal. Magic. Envy turned to exile. It all sounded like something out of the stories he used to read as a kid.

But now… it was his story, too.

Somehow, their lives had crossed. Somehow, fate had threaded them together.

The lights in his room clicked off.

And in the darkness, for the first time in a long while, Lorenzo felt something stir inside him—not confusion or fear, but something stronger.

Hope.