Amelia Le Vorndel's Point of View
When I woke up, everything was unfamiliar.
The ceiling above me was white and plain, devoid of any carvings or paintings. The sheets wrapping around me were just as colorless, too pristine, too foreign. There were strings—no, tubes—attached to my arm, their translucent color blending with my pale skin. My body felt heavy, my head light, as if my soul had been untethered and was only just settling into place.
I shifted my gaze, my eyes catching sight of a man and woman dressed in peculiar clothing. The woman was even wearing trousers—a rarity in the world I once knew.
Our eyes met.
In an instant, they rushed to me, embracing me as if I were the most precious thing in existence. Their warmth was overwhelming, their voices thick with emotion.
They called me Alice.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I couldn't remember how. Their voices blurred together, their words unintelligible. I understood nothing.
---
Time passed.
Slowly, I adapted. I learned their language, piecing together the syllables and meanings until their world made sense. And in this strange new place—where magic was a mere illusion, where kings and empires had long been replaced by democracy, where the streets buzzed with electricity and machines soared through the sky—I found something I never had before.
Peace.
Years drifted by, and I became Alice in every sense of the word. The beloved daughter of a modern family. A girl with friends, enemies, a pet, and a love for art. I excelled in my studies, my knowledge from my past life turning me into a so-called prodigy. My hands danced over piano keys, my music enchanting those who listened. My parents were proud. My life was full.
I was happy.
Then, on my twenty-third birthday, everything shattered.
The last thing I remembered was the screech of tires, the deafening bang—
---
I woke up gasping.
Pain lanced through my skull, a sharp, splitting ache that made me clutch my head. My breaths came in ragged pants as I tried to steady myself.
"I'm... alive," I murmured. But the moment the words left my lips, dread curled in my stomach.
My voice—it was different.
The air smelled familiar, yet wrong. I forced my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The walls were adorned with intricate golden vines, curling elegantly up toward the ceiling. Across the room stood a grand piano, its polished surface reflecting the faint glow of moonlight.
This place...
This room…
My body trembled. No.
I pinched my arm, hard. The pain seared through my skin, deep into my very soul.
And then I knew.
I'm back.
A hollow laugh slipped past my lips as I turned toward the mirror.
The girl staring back at me was a ghost.
Silver hair cascaded in delicate waves, its luster like spun moonlight. Her skin was porcelain, almost lifeless, her eyes glowing like shattered gemstones—void of warmth, void of humanity. She looked nothing like Alice.
She was Amelia Le Vorndel.
It should have been a dream. That peaceful life, the love I had known, the happiness I had built—it should have been real. But I was here, in this cold, lifeless place where fate had already written my end.
And I knew one thing for certain.
In this life…
I will die.
---
The night stretched on, silent except for the soft hum of the wind beyond the window. The moon bathed the room in silver light, casting long, haunting shadows across the floor.
I welcomed the cold. It was the only thing that had ever embraced me in this place.
Without thinking, I found myself seated at the piano. My fingers, pale and trembling, hovered over the keys before pressing down, releasing a single note.
Then another.
And another.
The melody poured from me, a sorrowful requiem echoing through the empty halls. Each note bled with longing, with grief, with the desperate ache of a life lost.
I played until my hands ached, until my mind numbed, until the tears I could not shed found their voice through the music.
And then—
Darkness.
---
"She's awake."
The whispers spread through the estate, slipping past walls and through corridors like ghostly murmurs. Outside her window, servants gathered, enchanted, drawn by the haunting melody that wept through the cold night air.
When the physicians arrived, they found the young lady at the piano, playing endlessly, her body swaying as though caught in a trance.
Again.
And again.
Until they had no choice but to sedate her.
---
"Young Lady."
A maid's voice broke through the haze.
She stood by the window, her gaze distant, her body frail. She had refused to eat. They had been forced to feed her, bathe her, dress her, because the Duke had demanded her presence.
Four maids worked in tandem, their hands tightening corsets, fastening lace, adorning her with golden chains that felt like shackles. By the time they were done, she was heavy—drowned in wealth, weighed down by a name she no longer wanted to bear.
She could barely walk. The maids held her steady as they led her to her father's office.
She moved like a marionette.
A doll with dead eyes.
When she entered, she greeted him with a practiced smile—one that did not reach her eyes. She lowered her head in grace, but the motion left her swaying, her body too weak to carry even the pretense of strength.
The Duke said nothing.
They drank their tea in silence.
Then, the doors opened.
"I have come home, Father."
A young man stepped inside. His silver hair was neatly swept back, his uniform crisp. His gaze flickered toward her, sharp, assessing.
The Duke exhaled, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. "Have I called for you?"
"Should you really be forcing your sick daughter to tea?" The son's voice dripped with sarcasm.
The Duke's gaze darkened. "Was it ever wrong for me to see to her well-being?"
"Rather than dragging her out of her chambers, you—"
The delicate sound of porcelain shattering cut him off.
The cup lay in broken shards at Amelia's feet.
She stood, bowed, and walked out.
The maids called after her, but she did not listen.
She could not hear them.
She was deaf.
She was dead.
---
The night found her wandering the halls, a ghost drifting through the empty corridors.
The moon guided her steps, its light casting silver trails across the cold stone.
She did not feel the chill.
She felt nothing.
And yet, when she reached the lake, she hesitated.
The water shimmered, mirroring the sky above—a vast, endless abyss.
It would be easy.
She had seen it before. Felt it before.
The pain.
The betrayal.
The hands that had once held her, now the ones driving the blade into her heart.
She had died before.
She would die again.
She stepped forward.
The water embraced her.
And as she sank, the only thing she wished for—
Was to wake up somewhere else.
But before darkness could claim her, something seized her wrist.
A hand.
A presence.
A voice—deep, layered, distorted, like a chorus of whispers.
She blinked, consciousness flickering in and out.
The figure knelt before her, their cloak billowing in the wind. No words were spoken as they draped it over her shoulders, shielding her from the night.
"Where do you live, miss?"
A simple question.
She turned her hollow gaze toward them.
"Somewhere," she murmured. "You can leave me here."
The stranger did not move.
"It is dangerous to leave you alone."
"Just let me be."
Silence.
Then—
"You're cursed."
Amelia's voice was steady, certain.
The stranger with their arms exposed did not waver.
Neither did the she.
And in that moment, she wondered—
Who was truly cursed?