Morning came slowly, as if the sun itself was reluctant to rise. The soft light filtered through the round window and spilled onto the floor like melted silver. Ravine sat curled at the edge of the bed, her hands shaking slightly, her eyes still raw from sleep. A dream had torn through her night—a memory not hers, and yet so deeply embedded within her bones it felt undeniable.
She had seen the house in its former warmth, heard voices—laughter muffled by the haze of time. One voice distinctly hers, maybe. Another, male. She couldn't place them, couldn't hold on to them. But the emotions clung to her. Something real had been lost—and something within her now mourned it.
Arana sat beside her, wordless at first. She handed Ravine a mug of steaming tea—fragrant, herbal, grounding. The silence stretched not uncomfortably, but with purpose. Like soil waiting for rain.
"I dreamt I was here," Ravine said finally, voice hoarse. "But... different. There was a man, and a woman. I think I was one of them. Or maybe both. I couldn't tell."
Arana studied her. "Do you remember their names?"
Ravine shook her head. "Just... echoes. Laughter. I saw myself in the mirror. I was me, but it wasn't me. The voice... it was familiar, but I couldn't tell if it belonged to me. Or someone else. It's like my mind is trying to trick me."
Arana nodded slowly. "This place—it carries memory like fog. It clings. It wants you to belong to it. And maybe… maybe you already do."
Ravine set the tea down with a trembling hand. "So, you believe it too? That I'm Niva?"
"I don't know," Arana admitted. "But I believe you believe it. And I believe your pain is real. That's enough for me."
They sat in silence again. Outside, the wind stirred through the ivy leaves, a lullaby whispered by old stones.
Later, Arana excused herself. "I'll give you some time," she said. "Sometimes answers come clearer when you sit with the silence."
Ravine nodded, and Arana slipped out quietly.
But outside, walking the quiet path between the grove and the home, Arana's face held a different expression—thoughtful, conflicted. She sat on a mossy bench, gazing at the stone statue in the courtyard. Niva and Maelon Serre.
She whispered to herself, "Maybe it really is her. Maybe she's just finding her way back."
A pause.
"But why then, does it still feel like something's missing?"
She didn't push the thought further. She folded it away, letting it rest like a leaf on water.
Back inside, Ravine stood before the mirror again. Her reflection looked back—not with clarity, but with waiting.
There were still questions.
But for now, it was enough to believe.
Or at least, to try.