The storm had quieted by dawn, but the house hadn't. It breathed... not with wind or sound, but with a kind of awareness that pulsed quietly in the still air.
Ren hadn't slept. He'd tried, curling up on the velvet couch downstairs, but every time he closed his eyes, he felt that soft rhythm beneath the floorboards... the same one he'd felt when he touched the book. Like the heartbeat of something vast and alive.
The silver key still rested on the table. The book lay beside it, open where he'd left it, the words faintly glowing in the half-light: To the one who bears my mark, welcome home.
He'd read that sentence a hundred times before sunrise, hoping it would change, that he'd find some logical explanation hidden between the strokes of ink. But it didn't. It remained as beautiful and unsettling as it had the night before.
The mansion felt different now... less empty, yet lonelier somehow. Every corner whispered a memory that wasn't his. Every hall seemed to recognize his footsteps before he took them.
Ren rubbed his eyes and looked around. "What do you want from me?" he muttered again. His voice was hoarse, half-plea, half-prayer.
No answer. Only the sound of the clock ticking somewhere in the distance... steady, patient.
He forced himself up. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. He crossed the living room, his fingers brushing along the walls as he went, grounding himself in the texture of paint and plaster.
The moment he stepped past the doorway, the lights flickered once, as if acknowledging his movement.
"Yeah, I know you're awake," he whispered under his breath, forcing a small laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "I can feel it."
He didn't know what guided him, but something... curiosity, instinct, maybe even the presence itself... led him toward the grand staircase. The house had two floors above and what looked like a basement below, its entrance sealed by a heavy wooden door.
He decided to explore upstairs first.
Each step creaked softly under his weight. Dust floated lazily in the air, glimmering in the dim morning light filtering through stained glass windows. The light bent into strange colors... violet, indigo, and the faintest trace of gold... painting shifting patterns on the walls.
The corridor above was lined with portraits. Most were faded, their faces cracked by time. But one caught his eye... not because it was clearer than the others, but because it seemed to watch him back.
It was a portrait of a young man dressed in royal robes of silver and black. His expression was calm but distant, eyes half-lidded, lips barely curved in something that could be mistaken for sorrow or disdain.
Ren froze. His heartbeat faltered.
It was him.
Not just a resemblance... him. Every curve of his face, the shape of his jaw, the small scar near his left eyebrow. It was all there, painted in delicate, confident strokes by some long-gone hand.
He stepped closer, breath caught in his throat.
The name engraved on the plaque below the painting read:
Prince Liu Ren of the Eastern Court.
He stumbled back a step, gripping the wall.
"No… no, that's not…" His voice cracked. "That's not possible."
He turned away, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth. He'd never seen this place before. Never heard of any prince with his name. Yet the painting existed... centuries old by the look of it.
He forced himself to look again, and for a split second, the painted eyes seemed to shift... not move, exactly, but deepen.
"Who are you?" Ren whispered. "Why do you have my face?"
Silence. Only the faint hum that filled the air again, that strange heartbeat buried deep in the house's bones.
He didn't notice the soft vibration in the book he still held until it started to tremble in his hand.
Ren looked down. The pages fluttered open by themselves, flipping fast, stopping midway. The air around him cooled instantly, his breath misting in front of him.
The portrait lightened... literally glowed... as the same page in the book revealed an illustration of it, perfect down to the smallest detail.
But below the drawing, fresh words appeared in crimson ink, bleeding into existence as he watched:
He remembers nothing, yet carries the mark. Find the truth before it consumes him.
Ren's fingers tightened around the spine of the book. "Who wrote this?" he whispered.
No answer. Only a faint vibration beneath his thumb, as if the book were alive, restless, impatient.
He turned the next page carefully. The ink began to move again, forming a paragraph before his eyes:
He was the last prince of the forgotten court. His blood bound to shadows. His heart offered to the keeper of dusk.
Ren's skin prickled. The words felt like a confession, like something whispered at the edge of a dream.
He turned another page... and there it was.
A painting, hand-drawn but vivid enough to breathe. It showed the prince... himself... sitting on a throne made of obsidian, his expression unreadable, eyes half-lit in violet flame. A figure knelt before him, face hidden in darkness, head bowed as if in devotion.
Ren's breath hitched.
The figure's outline was familiar... the same shape as the shadow that had appeared in his room.
He closed the book quickly, his heart hammering. "No. No, no, no…"
He turned toward the portrait again. The painted eyes seemed softer now, almost sad.
Ren felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the impossible weight of it all... the painting, the book, the voice that called his name.
He stumbled back into the hall, the floor cold under his feet, the light dimming as if the house itself wanted him to stay, to look longer.
But he couldn't. He ran.
Down the corridor, down the stairs. The air thickened as he reached the ground floor again, his pulse echoing in his ears.
He leaned against the railing, gasping. "What do you want from me?" he shouted. "Why me?"
The sound bounced off the walls, came back softer, distorted.
When silence returned, the chandelier above swayed gently... though there was no wind.
He sank to the floor, head in his hands, breathing hard. The mark on his neck pulsed again, harder this time, burning like fire beneath the skin.
"Stop," he whispered, clutching at it. "Please, just stop."
But it didn't. The heat spread down his spine, up to his jaw. He could feel the rhythm syncing with his heartbeat again... fast, desperate.
Then something cold brushed against his cheek.
He froze.
The air beside him shimmered faintly, as if heat distorted it. From that shimmer, a faint silhouette emerged... tall, indistinct, but unmistakably human.
Ren didn't move. The figure reached out a hand, dark and translucent, and touched the side of his neck where the mark burned.
Instantly, the pain stopped.
A cool sensation spread through him, like water dousing flame.
Ren's breath trembled. "Who are you?"
The shape tilted its head, but no words came. Then, as though answering without sound, the book on the floor opened by itself once more.
Ren turned toward it, still unable to move. The pages flipped again and stopped at the illustration of the prince. But now, beneath it, more words appeared... not in red this time, but in soft violet:
He was mine.
Ren stared. His heartbeat skipped. He looked back toward the shadow. The outline had drawn closer, almost close enough to touch.
"You… you were with him?" His voice barely came out.
The air shimmered faintly in response, as though the figure nodded.
Ren's throat tightened. He whispered, "Then… who am I?"
The shadow didn't answer. Instead, it reached toward the open book, its fingers brushing the page. The ink rippled, spreading across the paper, reshaping itself into new words:
You are what remains.
Ren's eyes stung. "What does that mean?"
But the figure began to fade, dissolving into the morning light that spilled through the tall windows.
He tried to reach for it, desperate, but his fingers touched only empty air. The cedar scent lingered behind, faint and bittersweet.
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
Ren sat there for a long time, staring at the pages until his vision blurred. The house was still. Even the clock seemed to have stopped ticking.
Finally, he shut the book and hugged it to his chest.
He didn't know what to believe anymore... that he was dreaming, cursed, haunted, or losing his mind. But deep inside, beneath the fear, something else had begun to stir.
Recognition.
Not memory... not yet. Just the faintest feeling of belonging to something older than time.
He looked at the portrait again from where he sat, its painted eyes half-lit by the morning sun.
He whispered, "If you really were me… then what did I do to deserve this?"
The question hung unanswered in the golden light.
The hours passed like water. He didn't eat, didn't move much. The world outside brightened, birds called faintly through the open window, but he barely heard them.
As noon approached, the mark on his neck began to cool again, fading from violet to pale blue. The book grew heavier in his hands... not physically, but in meaning, in consequence.
He finally rose and carried it back to the small desk near the balcony. The view outside glittered under sunlight, the same one that had soothed him last night.
Ren placed the book gently on the desk, tracing its worn leather surface with a fingertip. "You said he was yours," he murmured. "Then why am I here?"
The book didn't answer. But something else did.
A faint whisper brushed his ear, too close to be imagined... a voice rough and deep, the same one from the call.
"You were never supposed to forget."
Ren froze. He turned around... no one. The air behind him shimmered briefly, like heat rising from stone.
He swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
No reply. Only that scent again... cedar, faint rain, and the warmth of something familiar.
He looked down at the book again. The pages turned once more, this time to a passage he hadn't seen.
It wasn't written in neat script anymore, but scrawled, urgent, alive:
The prince and the keeper made a vow beneath the red moon. When the veil broke, one was bound to memory, the other to shadow.
Ren's breath caught. He traced the words slowly. "The keeper… that's you, isn't it?"
The curtains stirred as if in answer.
He felt the pull then... a strange tug at the edge of his mind, like the whisper of a forgotten dream calling him back.
Images flickered faintly behind his eyes: moonlight on marble floors, the scent of burning incense, a hand... large, familiar... resting over his own.
Then it was gone, as quickly as it came.
Ren stumbled back, clutching his head. "No… I saw something. I saw..."
But the moment dissolved. The air was calm again.
He looked around the room, disoriented. The portrait above the stairs glowed faintly in the afternoon light.
Ren turned toward it and whispered, almost helplessly, "If you're me, then who is he?"
The house seemed to listen. The faint hum returned, low and steady, like the rhythm of a distant heartbeat.
Ren sat by the window until dusk, the book open before him, the sky turning violet again... that same bruised color that haunted him since the first night.
When the sun disappeared, the shadow returned. Not a shape this time, but a soft shimmer in the dark.
Ren didn't flinch. He looked at it, eyes tired but steady.
"Tell me the truth," he said softly. "What am I remembering?"
The air trembled, and for the briefest instant, the shadow leaned close, its voice a whisper right at his ear.
Everything you've lost.
And then it was gone.
Ren sat there in the quiet, the weight of those words settling over him like a promise and a curse. The house exhaled. The night grew still.
And far away, the portrait of the prince seemed to smile... faintly, almost imperceptibly... as though it, too, remembered.
END OF THE CHAPTER.