The rain had fallen without mercy, drumming against the roof of the grand Aurelia mansion like the steady beat of a thousand heartbeats. Thunder rolled through the distant hills, soft yet commanding, as Amara walked quietly along the long corridor lined with portraits and golden lamps that flickered faintly from the cold draft seeping through the windows.
The air smelled of rain and candle wax fresh, cold, and faintly sweet, a scent that always brought her comfort. She paused by the tall arched window at the end of the hall. A silver gleam of moonlight touched the glass, blurring with the trails of raindrops. Slowly, she lifted her right hand, pressing her palm against the cold surface as if to feel the storm itself.
She whispered softly, "It's lovely tonight."
Her reflection in the glass looked pale and wistful, her dark curls falling loosely over her night robe. The faint glimmer of lightning briefly revealed her soft expression the kind that belonged to someone trapped between longing and unease.
Down below, in the courtyard, a carriage stood waiting by chance, its black frame glistening beneath the rain. The horses snorted faintly, their breath misting in the cold air. Perhaps it was foolish, she thought, to leave in such weather, yet the rain called to her in a strange, familiar way.
Without hesitation, she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and descended the marble staircase, her slippers almost soundless against the polished stone. The butler and maids were long asleep; only the whisper of the storm kept her company.
When she reached the carriage, the driver an old man she barely recognized gave a startled look but bowed quickly.
"My lady, where shall we"
"The Art Hall," she interrupted softly. "I wish to visit it tonight."
Though clearly confused, the driver nodded and obeyed. The wheels began to turn, splashing through puddles as the carriage rolled out of the gates.
Amara leaned against the seat, her eyes gazing out through the misted glass. The world outside was blurred a watercolor of shadows, trees swaying under the storm, and flashes of light streaking the sky. She could smell the dampness of earth mixed with the faint scent of leather inside the carriage. Every sound the clatter of hooves, the whisper of wind seemed distant, almost dreamlike.
Why do I keep returning there? she wondered.
It wasn't only about the bronze-skinned man, though his image refused to leave her thoughts. There was something else the feeling of peace and melancholy that lingered within those walls, like memories she couldn't recall. Perhaps it was foolish, but the rain seemed to guide her there.
After what felt like moments and hours at once, the carriage came to a stop. The sound of rain softened against the cobblestone as Amara stepped down, her shoes meeting the cold stone path. The scent of wet roses from the garden near the entrance filled the air.
The Art Hall loomed before her its tall columns glistening, the lanterns dim yet warm against the storm. She walked slowly to the grand doors, the sound of her steps echoing softly beneath the rain.
Inside, the air was still.
The hall was vast and silent, every painting dimly lit by the flicker of oil lamps left burning through the night. The scent of old parchment, oil paint, and rainwater clung to the air. Her footsteps echoed faintly as she moved between the rows of framed art.
"Quiet," she murmured to herself, her voice barely a whisper. "So quiet."
It felt almost sacred the way silence rested here, as if the hall itself was holding its breath.
She brushed her hand along the wooden frame of a nearby painting, her fingertips gliding over the fine carvings. Each step she took deeper into the corridor felt heavier, lonelier, yet not frightening. It was a strange comfort.
At that moment, a distant sound of thunder rolled outside, and Amara looked up toward the far end of the hall where shadows stretched endlessly. For a moment, she thought she saw movement something like a figure at the corner of her sight but when she blinked, there was nothing.
"Perhaps," she whispered, "it's only my imagination."
The clock in the distance chimed faintly soft and slow, though not yet midnight. The echo faded, leaving only the sound of rain.
Amara stood still, her heart calm yet uncertain. The same hall that once felt bright now carried a quiet sadness. Still, she smiled faintly, whispering to herself
"I suppose the rain makes everything a little more beautiful."
The rain continued its soft rhythm outside as Amara wandered deeper into the grand hall. The echoes of her light steps mingled with the faint rumble of thunder, a haunting melody that seemed to belong only to her. The wide corridors curved into the garden, where the great tree stood its silver leaves glimmering beneath the storm.
Even in the night, it looked alive.
Drops of rain clung to its branches like strings of diamonds, and the scent of wet earth and fresh grass filled the air an earthy sweetness, like green life after a long sleep. Amara tilted her face slightly upward, closing her eyes. The cold breeze brushed her skin, and she smiled faintly.
It feels so peaceful…
But as her eyes opened again, she saw it the small art room behind the tree, the same one where she had first seen him. For a moment, the lightning cracked across the sky, painting the windows white. Her heart thudded softly against her chest.
She hesitated only for a breath before walking closer.
The heavy rain pattered against the windows as she reached the door. Her fingers trembled faintly as she pushed it open.
The room was dark.
Only the brief flashes of thunder outside gave it shape the outlines of chairs, easels, and frames stacked against the walls. A faint wind crept in through the cracks, making the curtains sway like ghosts. Amara reached for the small oil lamp hanging near the doorway. She lit it, and the warm glow trembled softly, painting her face in gold and shadow.
The smell of turpentine and old wood surrounded her. Dust motes floated through the thin light.
She took slow steps, holding the lamp close, its glow dancing over unfinished sketches and color-stained palettes.
Then she saw it.
A painting stood on the far side of the room, leaned carefully against the wall. The faint shimmer of the brushstrokes drew her closer.
When the next flash of lightning struck, she froze.
The woman in the painting looked back at her.
Her face calm, composed, radiant was the same woman from her dream. Not the faceless version shrouded in darkness, but her full visage, revealed in quiet beauty. The lady in the portrait wore a gown of ivory silk that flowed like moonlight; her long hair, straight and dark as ink, cascaded down her shoulders. But what captured Amara most were her eyes soft yet piercing, violet in hue, as though they held a thousand unspoken things.
Amara's breath hitched.
She slowly raised her hand, fingertips brushing lightly against the painted surface. The woman's beauty was breathtaking, divine almost, and yet… there was something unsettling about her stillness, as if she were more than just art.
"Why…" Amara whispered faintly, "why is this painting here?"
The brushstrokes, the folds of the gown it was all exactly as in her dream. The realization sent a quiet shiver down her spine. The thunder rumbled again, closer this time, shaking the windows. The flame of her lamp flickered violently.
She stepped back, her pulse quickening.
The room seemed to grow colder.
Then softly at first came the sound.
A step.
Then another.
Not the clack of boots against the floor, but a soft, almost wet rhythm. Barefoot. Slow. Uneven.
Amara froze.
The sound was faint, but it was there moving from the far end of the dark room, beyond the edge of her lamp's glow. She strained her eyes toward the blackened corner.
"Is someone there?" she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself.
No answer.
Only the rain tapping on the window, and the faint creak of the old wooden floorboards.
Her grip tightened on the lamp handle.
The warmth of the flame was her only comfort now. The air felt heavier colder as if the shadows themselves were breathing. Another step. Closer.
This time, she was certain she heard the soft drag of skin against stone. Bare feet.
Her throat tightened.
She turned toward the door slowly, but her curiosity her cursed curiosity kept her from running. The lamp trembled in her hand, casting wild shadows across the walls.
Then, silence.
Only the ticking of the small clock on the wall, and the soft flicker of the flame.
Amara swallowed, whispering to herself, "It's just the wind… maybe…"
But deep down, she knew it wasn't.
She could feel it someone was here.
And whoever, or whatever it was, had been standing in the dark long before she entered.