Helena followed Becka out of the room on the second floor, crossing a corridor that stretched long and dark. The thick runner beneath her feet bore embroidered foreign patterns that whispered of luxury. Arched doorways lined the hallway, their carved frames swallowing the scant light.

Sconces bloomed like gilded flowers along the paneled walls, each cradling a trembling flame behind frosted glass. The glow was faint, like warmth bruised by shadow. Above, a pair of chandeliers hung like dimmed stars. On the sides, untouched cabinets stood like sentinels.

The mansion, imposing and luxurious, felt lifeless—a beautiful corpse, forgotten long ago.

Becka chattered about all the amazing places she’d show her as they descended to the first floor.

“You’re gonna love it! This is an art gallery—it’s like one of those museums in the capital.”

They stood before a pair of aged mahogany doors. Becka pushed them open, revealing a vast room bathed in muted light. The gallery brimmed with paintings and sculptures—wonders Helena had never seen in her life. Traces of a world she hadn’t witnessed.

“This is the Hall of Ashes. Funny name, right? I don’t think Master’s the one who named it. He got these pieces from all over the world. I don’t know why, though. He never even comes down here.”

Maybe it’s because it feels like a grave… Ashes of beauty the world forgot.

Helena drifted through the hall. She stood transfixed before the sculpture of a woman. Headless and armless. Her wings spread wide, as if caught mid-flight, frozen between freedom and loss.

“This one…” Becka stood beside her, brow furrowed, “Papa said it meant beauty. Or was it freedom? I don’t remember. Come see the others!”

Helena lingered, eyes locked on the headless woman who would never weep. Never soar. Never hide her face in shame of being broken.

They wandered on through the gallery. Helena’s eyes drank in every stroke, every gesture, every shadow. Becka offered a few passing comments, but Helena barely heard them.

“This one’s about love. Scary, huh? I don’t know if she’s been swallowed, or she’s surrendering.”

An oil painting throbbed with dark passion. A woman and a creature, part man, part lion, locked in a kiss both fierce and fragile. The creature’s hand cradled her neck, gentle and menacing. Her face tilted upward, caught between defiance and submission.

To Helena, it was the truest portrait of love she’d ever seen. A hunger. A veiled threat. Something that swallowed the soft-hearted first.

The painting clung to Helena’s mind as Becka chatted beside her, guiding them out of the mansion. They stepped onto a winding path toward a greenhouse. An immense glass sanctuary that rose like a small forest trapped under crystal. Inside, trees spread their limbs toward the ceiling; flowers bloomed in careless bursts of color. Water trickled from fountains, the soft murmur mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves. Benches nestled among the greenery, while small animals darted through the underbrush.

Here, warmth held sway. As if winter’s harsh breath couldn’t reach this hidden pulse of life, nor the creeping stillness that gripped the mansion.

“The master summoned wizards from the capital to build this,” Becka explained. “With winters that last half a year, flowers rarely bloom outside. So he brought all kinds of species from the north. Even the animals, he had them brought from somewhere else.”

A squirrel scurried down the bark of a tree, nose twitching as it eyed Helena. She tensed, retreating a pace, trying to put space between them. Becka noticed and, with a soft click of her tongue, she crouched to scoop the squirrel into her arms.

“Don’t worry. They’re harmless,” she said, stretching the squirrel close to Helena. “The gardener feeds them, so all the animals here are friendly to humans.”

Helena’s shoulders tensed again, a flash of uneasiness flickering in her eyes. The squirrel’s glossy black eyes locked onto her, as if measuring her hesitation.

“Oh… animals scare you, huh? Sorry.”

Becka shrugged, setting the creature down and scratching her cheek with a sheepish grin.

“Shall we move on, then?”

Without waiting for an answer, Becka led the way back into the mansion. Their footsteps echoed as they entered a spacious, ancient-looking library. Towering shelves full of books stretched up to a high, arched ceiling painted with faded murals that Helena couldn’t quite make out. In one shadowed corner, a grand piano rested—its black lacquer dulled by age. Across the room, a tall glass window drank in pale light, revealing a quiet interior garden beyond.

Helena’s eyes widened, dancing from shelf to shelf, unable to settle. A hushed chuckle stirred beside her.

“For someone so quiet, your thoughts show loudly on your face.”

She flinched, her expression tightening, folding back into the stony mask she wore so well. She drifted through the aisles, fingertips grazing the book spines, admiring the worn covers but never daring to touch.

“You can read if you want. Actually, come whenever you like. See that door? It connects the library to the gallery. You’re free to come and go.”

Helena turned, gaze cutting toward Becka. Suspicion clouded her expression like a shadow before she turned away. Her fingers lingered along the spines.

Becka huffed behind her.

“You don’t believe me, huh?”

Becka’s voice lifted in mock-seriousness.

“Very well. I, proud second daughter and acting voice of Lord Ossveil’s proxy, hereby permit you to roam as you please.”

Her tone was solemn, as if performing a knighthood, but it had a playful edge.

A soft laugh escaped Helena before she caught herself. She shook her head, her attention now lingering on the piano.

“Oho~ you dare question my word?” Becka gasped with theatrical flair. “Fine!”

She dashed to the nearest table, rummaging for parchment and ink

“I, Rebecca Elizabeth—don’t you dare use those names or I’ll kill you—Ossveil, hereby grant permission to… Helena…”

She scribbled as she spoke, tongue peeking out in concentration.

“Do you have a second name? No? Never mind, I’ll invent one. Makes it sound official. Helena… Celine… is granted permission… to enter the library, or any room…”

With a dramatic flourish, Becka offered the parchment, then pulled it back.

“Except for the third floor, of course. Oh, and the signature… There! A permit granted by the proxy’s proxy herself!”

Helena stared at the parchment, then at Becka’s outstretched hand. Unsure, she took it. Her name, inked in elegant calligraphy, felt foreign beside the word permission.

I suppose it must be fine… if Mr. Raymond and Miss Aidin say so…

She turned back to the shelves she dared not touch, eyes catching a light too complex to name.

Becka was restless, pulling a book, skimming a few lines, then tossing it aside to grab another. Between half-hearted attempts, she muttered how much she hated reading. Eventually, she gave up and settled into watching Helena, who lingered by the piano, gaze fixed on the keys but never reaching out.

“Can you play?” Becka asked. “I can’t. Laloid’s the talented one. I’m more of an outdoor brat, as Mama likes to say.”

Helena shook her head, eyes still resting on the piano.

“I don’t… but I like it. It always sounded like freedom to me.”

“Freedom?” Becka tilted her head. “That’s a strange way to put it…”

She didn’t push further. Instead, she leapt to her feet and strode to the window, throwing it open with both hands.

“Speaking of freedom—gotta run. It’s been days since I went to the village. Don’t tell Laloid! If anyone asks for me, say you know nothing. Bye~”

She waved at Helena and disappeared.

Helena tarried, puzzled. It was as if Becka took with her not only the room’s warmth, but the very permission to remain.

Her gaze drifted to the piano. It looked… misplaced. A grand, black lacquered relic, its surface etched with hairline cracks, the varnish dulled by age. The fallboard bore a faded floral carving, time-blurred. The keys, once ivory-white, had yellowed, and some showed the crescent dents of fingers that had played repeatedly.

The mansion’s eeriness pressed against her skin.

The mansion was too muted, too cold. Too constricted. But the piano felt too much alive—a lone witness of a soul hidden within these walls.

Drawn by an unknown force, Helena’s fingers brushed the keys. A shiver crawled up her spine. Her heart thundered in her ears.

Why did the touch unsettle her so? Maybe because it was the only thread of life left in this silent house.

She took a breath and dared to press down.

A thin, out-of-tune note trembled in the air.

A soft, grieving sigh from the house itself.

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Hello~ Sorry for the late update this week. I was fighting to come up with the outline for the next chapters lol. Please, please leave a comment with your thoughts on this story. It’d be of great help for me to know what you guys think. All constructive criticism is welcome!