The household had begun to breathe in rhythm—tea steaming in the late sun, pages turning softly in the library, the click of Evelyn's Keyboard typing like a gentle metronome. It was a quiet magic, the kind that lulled one into thinking nothing could ever shatter it.
But even magic has its fault lines.
Eva watched more than she spoke now. She studied the way Evelyn's eyes lingered on Vivienne when she thought no one was looking, or how Vivienne's hand would find Evelyn's in the space between sentences, as though drawn by gravity. These moments slipped past most, but not Eva.
She saw everything.
She began drawing strange things. A tower with no windows. A garden with two suns. A mirror that showed someone else's face. Evelyn and Vivienne praised her creativity, but their smiles faltered at the edges.
One night, Eva woke with a start. Not from a nightmare, but from a sound she couldn't name—like a harp string snapping in another room. She slipped from bed and followed it.
The house had changed. The hallways felt longer. The paintings blinked. The air thrummed with something old.
She found herself in the study, where the fireplace was unlit, and the moonlight fell in perfect slats through the lattice windows. On the desk lay a letter, half-buried beneath a book.
She couldn't read all the words, not yet. But she knew names.
Her name.
And another. Scrawled in looping script beside hers.
"Evangeline."
The room pulsed. The lamp on the desk sparked to life—though no one had lit it.
Footsteps. Soft. Urgent.
Eva turned just as Evelyn burst in, her face pale. Behind her, Vivienne skidded to a halt.
"You shouldn't be in here," Evelyn whispered, voice trembling.
Eva held up the letter. "What does it mean?"
Silence stretched like glass about to crack.
Vivienne reached for the paper—but it ignited in Eva's hand, burning with blue fire that did not scorch her skin. She didn't flinch.
Evelyn's knees gave out. She sank into the chair, eyes wide.
Vivienne whispered, "She knows."
Eva looked between them. Her voice was quiet. "Not yet. But I will."
A gust of wind slammed the window open behind them, scattering papers and petals from a forgotten vase. The light flicker turned violet.
And somewhere far beyond the garden walls, something ancient stirred—awake now, and listening.