The night pressed in around the ruined mansion, its skeletal remains whispering with the voices of things unseen. Evelyn hovered at Azrael’s side, the unease in her chest growing heavier with every step. They had a name now—Laurence—but that only deepened the mystery.
Who had he been to her? And why had he killed her?
Azrael walked ahead, his coat sweeping over the dust-laden floor. The locket, now tucked securely in his pocket, felt like a key waiting for the right lock. He had little patience for the slow unraveling of memories, but something told him they were close.
Evelyn stopped abruptly. “Wait.”
Azrael sighed, turning back. “What now?”
She drifted toward a door at the end of the hallway, its surface marred with scratches. Something about it tugged at her, an invisible pull stronger than fear.
“This room,” she murmured. “I know it.”
Azrael pushed the door open without hesitation. The air inside was thick, heavy with the scent of old wood and something fouler—decay, lingering beneath the surface like a long-buried secret.
Evelyn hesitated at the threshold. The room was in ruins, but she saw it as it had once been. A grand study, its bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes. A fireplace, its embers casting a golden glow. And in the center—
She gasped. A desk. And seated behind it…
A vision flickered before her. A man with dark hair and piercing eyes, fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of wine. He was watching her—no, watching the ghost of her memory.
Laurence.
Her vision swam. She clutched her head as voices rushed through her mind.
"You belong to me, Evelyn. You always will."
A cold shiver traced down her spine. He had said that before. In the ballroom, before everything changed. Before she died.
Azrael watched her reaction closely. “You remember.” It wasn’t a question.
Evelyn shook her head, though the truth was clawing at the edges of her mind. “It’s… pieces. I see him here, in this room. But I don’t know why.”
Azrael moved toward the desk, running his fingers along the dust-coated surface. He stopped suddenly, his gaze narrowing.
A faint engraving had been carved into the wood. He brushed away the dirt, revealing a name etched in precise, deliberate strokes.
Laurence Duvall.
Evelyn stiffened. “That’s him.”
Azrael traced the letters with his thumb. “Then we’ve found the man who killed you.”
A gust of wind swept through the study, snuffing out the fragile light that had crept in through the broken windows. The room seemed to breathe, shifting as if the past itself were stirring.
Evelyn’s form flickered. “Something’s wrong.”
Azrael’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist—not out of comfort, but to anchor her. “Stay with me, ghost.”
The shadows in the room darkened, pooling near the desk. And then—
A voice.
Low. Whispered. Familiar.
"You shouldn’t have come back."
The room plunged into darkness.
Evelyn barely had time to scream before the past swallowed her whole.
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