The place I pointed toward stood at the end of a narrow, crooked street—a mansion so old it looked like it had crawled straight out of a nightmare.
Its walls were cracked and covered in ivy, the windows dark and broken, and the iron gate leaned to one side as if it had long since given up on doing its job. Even from a distance, the place radiated an eerie stillness.
A gust of wind brushed past, rattling the rusted fence and creaking the warped wooden sign that hung beside it.
Anna turned her head to follow my gaze, and the moment her eyes landed on the mansion, she flinched.
"…That's where we're going?"
I gave a short nod.
Her face froze for a second, and I could almost hear her thoughts: Why there, of all places?
The expression didn't suit her usual poise—it was almost… human.
The mansion had a reputation in the capital. Locals called it the Ghost House.
