Morning filtered through the gauzy curtains, turning the walls a pale honey-gold. The house felt unchanged from the night before, but Ravine woke with a strange ache behind her eyes, a dampness at the corners she didn't remember placing there. She sat up slowly, the weight of the bloom over her heart grounding her more than comforting. Her dreams had left something behind—a splinter in her chest that hadn't been there before.
Arana sat at the edge of the window, watching the town quietly rouse itself from sleep. "You cried in your sleep," she said gently, not turning her head.
Ravine pressed her fingers to her cheeks and found the truth of it.
"Did I say anything?"
Arana nodded faintly. "Just one word. 'Stop.'"
Silence settled between them like a woollen blanket.
They spent the morning in silence. Ravine didn't try to explain what she'd seen—not yet. The memory was fragmented, unfinished. And still, she felt watched by it, as though her own mind had stepped aside to observe her fall apart.
Later, Arana coaxed her out into the air. The paths of Arilenth remained as soft and curved as ever, and the wind carried the hush of distant voices. They passed old gardens and singing fountains. Then, beyond a flowering archway, a soft lullaby drifted from an open window, old and warbled with memory.
Ravine froze.
Her knees buckled.
She fell to the earth in a soundless gasp.
"Ravine!" Arana rushed to her side, catching her shoulders. "What happened?"
But Ravine wasn't here. Not entirely.
In her mind, a window opened. Inside: a child humming that same lullaby, seated beside a still lake. Their hand tossed small stones into the water, waiting. Just waiting. The sun was dimming, and voices drifted from the house behind.
You shouldn't wear it.
It doesn't belong to you.
Just because it's been passed down doesn't make it yours.
You bring a curse.
The voices were not harsh—they were low, disappointed. They did not use names. They did not offer blame. They said you. And it was that you that twisted into her like a hook.
Ravine clutched her arms around herself as the dream-memory faded. Her eyes were damp again. Her heart beat like it was trying to tear its way out of her chest.
"I was there," she whispered. Arana sat beside her, still holding her gently. "You saw something?"
Ravine nodded. "The lake. A lullaby. Voices. They were talking to me… but I don't know why it hurt. I don't know why it felt like guilt."
Arana exhaled. "Then maybe it was real. Maybe this is who you were."
They didn't say the name. But they both thought it. Niva.
Arana helped her to her feet. They walked back slowly to the house that had once belonged to someone else. To someone who looked like Ravine. Who laughed like her. Who wore the bloom with pride and shame all tangled together.
And that night, when Ravine lay awake staring at the ceiling, she finally asked it aloud:
"Who is Maelon Serre?"
The house said nothing.
But the silence felt sharper than before.