"Miss—no, mistress. Please open the door."
Niana didn't answer.
She lay curled on the bed, blankets pulled up to her chin, staring at the canopy above like if she looked long enough, it would glitch. Fade. Reset.
"Two days," she muttered. "It's been two days. This is ridiculous."
A knock sounded again—gentle, measured.
"It has been forty-eight hours," Lucien's voice said from the other side of the door. Calm. Unyielding. "The maids must attend to you."
"No," Niana replied immediately. "I'm fine."
There was a pause.
"You have not eaten."
"I'm fasting."
"…For what purpose, mistress?"
"Spiritual clarity," she said flatly. "Or maybe I'll just wake up."
Silence.
Then, "You are unwell."
"I am trapped," she snapped, sitting up. "There's a difference."
Lucien did not raise his voice. "If you do not open the door, I will be forced to enter."
Her heart jumped. "You will not."
Another pause.
"…Then I will wait."
She scoffed. "Good. Wait forever."
Footsteps retreated.
She collapsed back onto the bed, hands clutching the sheets.
This can't be real.
Two days ago—no, yesterday, wasn't it?—she'd been slumped over her desk, highlighters scattered everywhere, notes taped to the wall. Entrance exam looming. Brain fried. Eyes burning.
She remembered thinking, Just a short nap.
And then—
Here.
"This is some isekai nonsense," she muttered into the pillow. "I don't even like this genre."
She sat up again, frustration buzzing through her veins.
Okay. Think.
If this were a novel—and she had read plenty—there were rules. Conditions. Triggers.
"There's always a reason," she said aloud. "A quest. A deadline. A finish line."
She slid off the bed and began searching the room.
Drawers. Cabinets. Shelves.
Clothes too expensive. Jewelry untouched. Letters written in elegant script she couldn't read—yet.
"This girl had taste," Niana muttered, holding up a dress. "And money."
She stopped in front of the mirror.
And froze.
The girl staring back at her was… stunning.
Not in an overwhelming, unrealistic way—but quietly, devastatingly beautiful. Pale skin, untouched by acne or stress. Long dark hair that fell smoothly down her back, catching light like ink. Eyes large, sharp, intelligent—too expressive to be ornamental.
She touched her cheek.
"…Wow," she whispered. "Okay. If I'm stuck here, at least I'm hot."
Her lips curved—full, soft, the kind that looked like they belonged in oil paintings. Her posture, even relaxed, carried grace.
"She was loved," Niana said softly. "You can tell."
Her gaze dropped.
On the desk sat a small book.
Plain. Worn. Tucked carefully beneath papers.
"…Please be useful," she murmured, picking it up.
The cover creaked when she opened it.
A diary.
The handwriting was neat at first.
Mother laughed today.
Brother says I read too much.
Lucien scolded me for running in the halls.
Niana paused.
"…Lucien?"
Her fingers tightened slightly, but she kept reading.
Pages filled with warmth. Family dinners. Summer trips. Notes about lessons, complaints about tutors, jokes scribbled in the margins.
"She was happy," Niana whispered.
Then—
The handwriting changed.
The lines became uneven. Words crowded each other.
They followed us into the forest.
Father told me to run.
I couldn't hear Mother anymore.
Niana's breath hitched.
Blood everywhere.
I hid.
Why am I alive?
The last pages were barely legible. Ink scratched harshly into the paper. Lines crossed out, rewritten, jagged.
They will come again.
I hear them.
I must remember.
Niana snapped the diary shut.
Her hands trembled.
"…I'm sorry," she whispered to the girl whose life she had taken. "I really am."
She pressed the diary to her chest, heart aching.
Outside the door, footsteps approached again.
A knock—gentler this time.
"Mistress," Lucien said quietly. "Please… allow me to assist you."
She wiped her eyes quickly. "My name," she said hoarsely. "What is it?"
There was a brief hesitation.
"Niana Valeris," Lucien replied.
Her breath caught.
"…Niana," she repeated. "Same as mine."
Another coincidence. Or not.
She stared at the diary in her hands.
"…Fine," she said at last. "You can come in."
The door opened slowly.
Lucien stepped inside, eyes immediately finding her—disheveled, pale, clutching a book like a lifeline.
For just a moment—
His composure cracked.
Only barely.
But she saw it.
And for the first time since waking up, Niana realized—
This world remembered her.
Even if she didn't remember it yet.
---
Lucien closed the door behind him with deliberate care.
The click of the latch sounded too loud in the stillness of the room.
Niana stood near the desk, diary pressed to her chest like it might slip away if she loosened her grip. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it so tightly until her fingers started to ache.
Lucien's gaze dropped to the book immediately.
"…You found it," he said.
Not a question.
Niana swallowed. "You knew it was here."
"Yes, mistress."
She huffed out a weak laugh. "Of course you did."
He took a step closer—not invading her space, but closing the distance enough that she felt his presence properly now. Up close, she noticed small things: the faint scar near his knuckle, the way his gloves were spotless despite being worn constantly, the fact that his expression never quite softened… even now.
Lucien's eyes lingered on the diary in her hands.
"…You've been reading," he said.
Niana stiffened.
So he noticed.
She forced her fingers to loosen, resting the book on the desk instead of clutching it like evidence. "I was… reminding myself," she replied carefully.
Lucien tilted his head. "Of what, mistress?"
That word again.
Her mind scrambled. Careful. Careful.
Say too much and you'll trip. Say too little and he'll notice.
"…Of my family," she said at last. "It's easy to forget things when you've been ill."
That was safe. That was believable.
Lucien studied her face, searching—not accusing, but observing. "You have not asked about them since you awoke."
Her heart skipped.
She lowered her gaze, letting a controlled silence stretch. "Because if I do," she said quietly, "I might not be able to stop."
That… was also true. Just not in the way he'd assume.
Lucien's expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "I understand."
You don't, she thought.
But thank you for thinking you do.
He reached toward the diary, then stopped. "May I return it to its place?"
Her fingers twitched.
No.
If this book leaves her sight, she loses her only proof that this life existed before her.
She shook her head once. "Not yet."
Lucien paused, then nodded. "As you wish."
The room fell quiet again.
Niana stared at her reflection in the darkened mirror across the room—
the girl with soft features, unblemished skin, eyes too clear for someone who'd lived through a massacre.
This isn't me, she thought.
But if I don't act like her… I won't survive.
Lucien broke the silence. "The maids are concerned. You have not eaten."
"I'm not hungry," she said immediately.
A lie. Her stomach twisted painfully.
Lucien didn't argue. Instead, he said, "Then at least allow them to open the curtains tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
Reality pressing in again.
"…We'll see," she answered.
Lucien bowed slightly. "I will return later."
As he turned to leave, his gaze flicked once more to the diary.
"…Mistress," he added, voice low, "whatever you are searching for—do not do it alone."
The door closed behind him.
Only then did Niana exhale.
She sank onto the bed, diary open in her lap, eyes burning.
Okay, she thought shakily.
Rule one: never let him hear the truth.
Rule two: find out what happened to her before this world decides I'm an imposter.