Chapter 7: Shadows of the Past

The ruined mansion had grown colder since Evelyn spoke his name. Laurence.

Even Azrael could feel it—something unseen shifting in the air, an ancient tension stirring in the decayed walls. Names held power, especially those tied to unfinished business. And now, the name of the man who had killed Evelyn had been spoken aloud for the first time in what must have been years.

Evelyn floated near the broken window, her form unusually still. Outside, the moon hung heavy over the land, casting silver light over the tangle of dead trees. But she wasn’t looking at the night. She was staring inward, lost in the labyrinth of her memories.

Azrael watched her in silence.

“You’re quiet,” Evelyn said, her voice distant.

Azrael smirked faintly. “I was waiting to see if speaking his name would summon anything nasty.”

She shot him a glare, but there was no real bite to it. “And?”

Azrael shrugged. “Nothing yet. But give it time.”

Evelyn sighed and turned back toward the room. “I don’t understand. If I remember Laurence, why can’t I recall how I died? The memory should be there.”

Azrael tapped the locket against his palm, thinking. “Memories are fragile things, ghost. Especially those tied to pain. The mind—and the soul—have ways of protecting themselves. You may have buried it too deep.”

Evelyn’s shoulders tensed. “Then how do I dig it back up?”

Azrael studied her. He saw the answer before she did. “We find Laurence.”

Evelyn stiffened. “That’s impossible. If he killed me, he’s long dead by now.”

Azrael chuckled. “You think death is the end?” He gestured around the decayed room. “You exist beyond it. Why not him?”

Evelyn’s form flickered as realization set in. “You’re saying… he could be a ghost too?”

Azrael tilted his head. “Or something worse.”

The wind howled through the broken window, rattling the rotted wood. The mansion groaned as if something deep within its bones had heard them. Evelyn shivered, a distant fear creeping up her spine.

“If he’s still out there,” she whispered, “what do we do?”

Azrael grinned, sharp as a blade. “We hunt him down.”

For the first time, Evelyn felt something other than fear.

She felt purpose.

Evelyn swallowed, staring at the locket in Azrael’s hand. The portrait inside was old, but the fear it awakened in her felt fresh, raw. If Laurence was still out there—somewhere between life and death—she had to find him.

“How do we even begin?” she asked.

Azrael tapped the locket against his palm. “The dead leave echoes. If Laurence’s soul still lingers, there will be traces—places he haunted in life, objects tied to him.” His gaze flickered toward her. “And if he’s like you, he might be bound to something… or someone.”

Evelyn tensed. The thought of coming face-to-face with him again made her insides twist, but she clenched her fists and forced herself to stand firm. “Then we start where I last saw him.”

Azrael raised an eyebrow. “You mean the ballroom from your memory?”

She nodded. “If I loved him, if he… claimed me as his, then it must have been somewhere important to us.” She hesitated. “And if that’s where it happened—”

Azrael’s smirk widened. “Then we’ll find what’s left of him there.”

A gust of wind rattled the room as if the house itself disapproved.

Evelyn ignored it.

For the first time in death, she was ready to face the past.

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