Excerpt from The Thorne Gazette
"The Miraculous Return of Lady Evelyne Thorne"
Byline: Oliver Crane
Tragedy gave way to astonishment this past week as the late Lady Evelyne Thorne—daughter of the ill-fated Duke Thorne—rose from what was thought to be her deathbed. Physicians had declared her deceased after a prolonged illness, and plans for her burial were underway when a household maid reportedly discovered her alive and breathing.
Lady Evelyne's miraculous revival has set tongues wagging across the capital. Was this an act of divine intervention, or merely a misdiagnosis? Some have even whispered of foul play or sorcery. Yet, as Lady Evelyne remains secluded within the confines of the diminished Thorne estate, the public can only speculate on the truth behind her return.
The Thorne family, once celebrated for their vast holdings and influence, has struggled since the Duke's untimely death two years ago. Now, with Lady Evelyne's recovery, many wonder whether this marks the start of the family's resurgence—or merely another twist in their tragic tale.
Ari now turned Evelyn sat stiffly in an old armchair, the soft morning light spilling through the worn curtains of her chamber. The newspaper rested on her lap, its headline glaring at her like an accusation.
"The Miraculous Return of Lady Evelyne Thorne."
She let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a choke, her fingers curling into the delicate fabric of her dress. The weight of the article—its exaggerations, its speculations—felt suffocating. The truth was far simpler, yet far more impossible to explain.
She wasn't Evelyne Thorne.
She wasn't a noblewoman.
Not only that, but she wasn't even from this world.
In the three months since she'd woken up in this unfamiliar body, Evelyne had experienced every emotion imaginable: fear, anger, confusion, despair. Now, those feelings had all bled into a hollow numbness.
She stood and paced the length of her room, her emerald-green eyes darting to the mirror that hung beside her wardrobe. She caught sight of herself and froze.
The reflection was both hers and not hers.
Her strikingly green eyes—so vivid they looked almost unnatural—stared back at her, framed by long lashes. Her jet-black hair fell in soft, glossy waves to her waist, cascading like a river of ink against her pale skin. The face was heart-shaped, delicate yet sharp, with high cheekbones and a stubborn chin.
It was a face that would draw attention, but to Evelyne, it was a mask. She raised a hand to touch her cheek, the smooth skin unfamiliar beneath her fingertips.
"This isn't me," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Her mind churned with fragmented memories of her own world—modern, bustling, chaotic. She missed the faint hum of her phone vibrating on her desk, the sharp clack of her heels against concrete, and the comforting warmth of Hans's sarcastic remarks.
How could she have lost everything so suddenly?
Evelyne's days fell into a monotonous rhythm. Claire, her maid, hovered constantly, fussing over her meals, her attire, and her well-being. Despite the maid's genuine concern, Evelyne found herself retreating further into solitude.
She barely ate, often picking at the lavish meals brought to her room. The thought of sitting through another formal dinner with her distant relatives—who clearly viewed her as more of a curiosity than a family member—was unbearable.
The Thorne estate, though grand in its heyday, now bore the marks of decline. The once-polished marble floors were dull, the tapestries faded, and the gardens overgrown with weeds. Evelyne's chamber, while still ornate, carried an air of neglect. The dust settled in the corners, and the air was thick with the faint scent of mildew.
She spent hours staring out the window, watching the world move on without her. The estate's staff, though polite, treated her with a mix of reverence and unease. Evelyne couldn't blame them. To them, she was a woman who had come back from the dead.
Her mind often drifted back to her life as Ari—the detective who solved the unsolvable, who unraveled mysteries with logic and intuition. She longed for the rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction of cracking a case. Here, she felt like a ghost in someone else's story.
At night, she dreamed of her apartment: the cluttered desk piled high with case files, the smell of fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen, the soft hum of her favorite playlist in the background. She dreamed of Hans, of their late-night stakeouts and sarcastic banter.
When she woke, reality hit her like a blow to the chest.
As the weeks stretched into months, Evelyne's despair deepened. She stopped leaving her room altogether, ignoring Claire's gentle attempts to coax her outside.
"My lady," Claire said one morning, standing by the window with a tray of untouched food. "You'll make yourself ill if you keep this up. A walk in the gardens might do you some good."
Evelyne didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the flickering fire in the hearth.
Claire hesitated before stepping closer. "I know it's hard," she said softly. "Losing your father, waking up after such a terrible illness... But you're still here, my lady. That must mean something."
Evelyne flinched at the words. Still here. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to go home.
Her depression was a heavy, suffocating fog that clouded her thoughts and drained her energy. She stopped looking in the mirror, unable to face the stranger who stared back. She stopped writing in the journal she'd started, the blank pages a reminder of her own helplessness.
Even simple tasks felt insurmountable. Meals went cold and forgotten. The books Claire brought her sat untouched on her bedside table.
At night, she lay awake for hours, her mind racing with questions she couldn't answer.
Why had this happened to her?
Was it some kind of punishment?
Would she ever find her way back?
Her chest tightened with a familiar ache, a longing so intense it brought tears to her eyes.
One evening, unable to bear the silence of her room, Evelyne wandered into the estate's library. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and leather bindings, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across the rows of shelves.
She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, searching for something—anything—that might hold the answers she so desperately needed. Her gaze fell on an old tome with a faded cover.
She opened it, her fingers trembling as she scanned the pages. The text was dense and archaic, filled with references to alchemy and otherworldly phenomena. It was nonsense, of course, but a small part of her couldn't help hoping.
"If there's a way in," she whispered, her voice cracking, "there has to be a way out."
But as the hours ticked by and the words on the pages blurred together, she realized she was chasing a fantasy. With a frustrated cry, she slammed the book shut, the sound echoing through the empty library.
Evelyne sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands. The weight of her situation was unbearable, and for the first time in years, she felt completely and utterly defeated.