Silence.

Eerie, unnatural silence fills the empty corridors of Blue Stone Manor. The only sound is the echo of your own boots against the cracked marble floor, each step a ghost of the last. The stillness presses in, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the relentless pounding of your heart. It roars in your ears. Your breath comes in short, uneven bursts, each inhale trembling with the weight of the cold, stale air. There is no one here but you—just you and your thoughts, those dark, curling thoughts that slither through your mind, wrapping tight around your throat like a sleeping anaconda.

One step. Two. How long have you been walking this hall? Seconds? Hours? Days? Time does not belong here. It flees this place like a coward, abandoning you to a space where night stretches endlessly, trapping shadows in an unforgiving, frozen stillness. You exhale, watching your breath materialize into a thin, crystalline cloud before it vanishes—like everything else.

Your fingers toy with the diamond band on your hand. It is familiar. A part of you. And yet, the story behind it escapes you. Had it always been there? You cannot remember.

The peeling wallpaper brushes against your fingertips, brittle and delicate, crumbling at the lightest touch. Faded floral patterns disintegrate, petals floating idly through the air as if carried by an unseen breeze. The portraits lining the corridor stare down in judgment, their once-proud subjects trapped in cracked, dusty frames. Nobles, perhaps. Or victims. Maybe both. Their unblinking gazes follow you, their painted lips whispering something just beyond the edge of hearing. Do they sneer? Frown? Smile? The flickering light distorts their expressions, playing cruel tricks on your tired mind.

Then—sound.

A single, piercing note shatters the silence.

Your breath stutters. The noise rings through the air, high and thin, like the cry of a dying thing. It rattles down your spine, a discordant warning. Every instinct tells you to turn back, to leave, to run.

But you don’t.

You move forward. One step. Two.

The sound calls to you, leading you to a door. Unlike the rest of the manor, it is untouched by time. Its dark wood gleams, smooth and unblemished. Silver filigree winds around the frame in intricate, curling patterns, an artistry too perfect—too deliberate. It does not belong.

You reach for the handle, fingers brushing cool metal just as the note reaches its crescendo—

Louder. Louder.

Then, silence.

The door swings open without a sound.

Inside, moonlight spills through towering windows, casting pale silver light across the room. Papers lie scattered across every surface, blank sheets curling at the edges, forgotten whispers of unfinished thoughts. Instruments—violins, cellos, harps—rest in disarray, discarded like fallen soldiers in the aftermath of battle. Some are shattered, splintered beyond repair. Others remain eerily intact, untouched by time’s cruel hand.

And there, in the farthest corner, a candle burns. Its flame flickers atop a music stand, illuminating the solitary figure seated before it.

A man.

Or something like one.

He sits with his back to you, long and still, his gaze lost in the endless stretch of trees beyond the window. Shadows cling to him like a second skin, obscuring his face, yet something in his posture—his presence—keeps you frozen in place. A warning hums in the back of your mind. Do not move. Do not speak.

He sighs. A quiet, weary thing. Then, with slow, practiced movements, he lifts the violin to his chin, bow poised against the fragile strings.

And he plays.

That note.

That dreadful, lonely note.

It coils around your ribs, wrapping cold fingers around your heart. Then, the melody begins—

a sorrowful, haunting serenade.

The notes drift through the air like smoke, curling into the empty spaces of the room, weaving something both delicate and dreadful. It is beautiful. Tragic. A melody steeped in longing, each trembling chord pulling at something deep inside you—something old, something forgotten.

You know this song.

Somewhere, sometime, you’ve heard it before. It is a story in itself, a tale of devotion and despair. The legend of a man who fell in love with a statue, a love so consuming that he played for her every night beneath the stars. He brought her gifts—jewels, flowers, the wedding band his mother once wore. And still, she remained cold, unyielding stone.

And so, he played.

Played until his fingers bled.

Played until his breath gave out.

Played until death claimed him at her feet.

And though the statue remained, his body was never found.

The violinist in front of you slows his bow, drawing out the final, aching note. A whisper of sound that lingers in the air before dissolving into silence.

A breath.

Then, at last, he turns.

Moonlight spills across his face, pale and sharp, painting him in soft shades of silver and shadow. He is beautiful in a way that unsettles—his features timeless, neither young nor old, but something in between. Something eternal. His eyes meet yours, dark and knowing, and in them, you see something that sends a chill through your bones.

Recognition.

He smiles, tired and sad, as if he has waited an eternity for this moment.

And then he speaks.

“At last, my Angel, you’ve come home.”