AMORA'S POV;
The world outside the room felt quieter somehow, as if the house itself was holding its breath. My thoughts swirled, too loud to ignore, even as Zora's warm hand guided me down the hallway. The image of that painting burned in my mind, more vivid than anything else I had seen in this place. Every detail—the curve of the brushstrokes, the glow of the colors, the reflection of my own face staring back—was impossible to forget.
Zora didn't speak as we walked, her usual cheerfulness dimmed to something gentler, more cautious. The silence felt loaded, like there were things she wanted to say but couldn't. It wasn't like her, and that only added to my growing unease.
Finally, as we stepped back into the bright sunlight streaming through the garden, I stopped walking. "Zora," I said, my voice firmer than I expected. "That painting... why is it there? Who painted it? And why—why does it look exactly like me?"
She turned to me, her expression soft yet unreadable. For a moment, I thought she might dismiss my questions, brush them off like they were nothing more than silly curiosities. But then she sighed, her shoulders sagging just a little. "Amora," she began, her voice quiet but steady. "There are things about this house, about my family, that are hard to explain. Sometimes even harder to believe. That painting... it's part of something much older than you or me. Something connected to this place and to him."
Her words sent a chill through me. Him. Of course, it came back to him. I crossed my arms, trying to mask the unease her words stirred in me. "Connected how?" I asked, though part of me wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.
Zora hesitated, glancing toward the house as if someone might be listening. "It's not my story to tell," she said finally. "But you deserve answers. Just... give it time. He'll explain when the time is right."
I wanted to argue, to demand more from her, but the sincerity in her eyes stopped me. She wasn't keeping secrets to hurt me—I could see that. Still, the weight of not knowing was suffocating, pressing against my chest like a vice.
"Fine," I said, though my voice was stiff. "But when that time comes, he better not leave anything out."
Her lips curved into a small, apologetic smile. "He won't. I promise."
We continued the tour, but my heart wasn't in it anymore. Zora pointed out more of the house's secrets—the way the gardens were designed to mimic constellations, the hidden passages that led to rooms I hadn't even imagined existed—but I couldn't focus. Every step, every word, felt like a distraction from the questions clawing at the back of my mind. And always, like a shadow I couldn't shake, the painting lingered in my thoughts.
Later that evening, I found myself wandering the halls, unable to sleep once again. The quiet of the house was oppressive, the kind of silence that made every creak of the floorboards sound like a shout. I told myself I was just exploring, trying to get a better sense of this place. But deep down, I knew where my feet were leading me.
The door to the room with the painting was still slightly ajar, just as I'd left it. For a moment, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Something about that room felt heavy, as if stepping inside again would pull me deeper into a world I wasn't ready to face. But curiosity won out, and I pushed the door open.
The air inside was colder now, the faint light from earlier almost completely gone. I moved toward the painting slowly, my steps careful, as if I were afraid to disturb the shadows. When I reached it, I stopped, staring up at the image of myself. The details were even sharper now, more alive. It was almost as if the painting was looking back at me.
As I stood there, something caught my eye—a faint inscription at the bottom of the frame. I hadn't noticed it earlier, but now it seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. Kneeling down, I traced the words with my fingers, my breath catching as I read them aloud.
"The destined one shall awaken the past."
A shiver ran through me, and I jerked my hand back as if the frame had burned me. The words echoed in my mind, cryptic and unsettling. What did they mean? And why did they feel so personal, so directed at me?
Before I could think too much, a voice behind me shattered the silence. "You shouldn't be here."
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. He stood in the doorway, his presence commanding even in the faint light. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—anger, maybe, or concern. It was hard to tell.
"I—I was just..." I stammered, but my words trailed off. How could I explain my way into this without sounding ridiculous?
He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. "This room isn't safe," he said, his voice low. "It holds things that aren't meant to be disturbed."
I frowned, my earlier frustration bubbling back to the surface. "Then why keep it here? Why leave it open for anyone to find?"
His gaze sharpened, and for a moment, I thought he might snap at me. But instead, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Some things can't be moved. They're bound to this place, just like you are now."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Bound to this place? I wanted to demand an explanation, but the look on his face stopped me. There was something raw in his expression, a vulnerability I hadn't seen before.
"Come on," he said finally, his tone softer. "You shouldn't be here alone."
He turned and walked toward the door, pausing to glance back at me. For a moment, I hesitated, torn between staying to unravel the mystery and following him. But the pull of his presence was too strong, and I found myself trailing after him, leaving the painting and its secrets behind.
As we walked through the darkened halls, the silence between us felt heavy, charged with unspoken words. I wanted to ask him a million questions, to demand the answers Zora wouldn't give me. But something about the way he carried himself—the tension in his shoulders, the quiet intensity in his eyes—made me hold back.
Instead, I settled for a single question, my voice barely above a whisper. "That painting... what does it mean?"
He didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. "It means more than you realize. But for now, it's better if you don't know."
His words only fueled my frustration, but I didn't push. For now, I'd let it go. But deep down, I knew this was only the beginning. Whatever secrets this house held, whatever truths were tied to that painting, I would uncover them. And no amount of cryptic warnings or guarded silences would stop me.