I wait until the house is quiet, until even the sea sounds half asleep. The air feels heavier tonight, like it knows what I’m about to do. Adrian’s study door is closed. I can hear faint music through the wall, something classical, precise, cold. He won’t hear me.

The east wing is colder than the rest of the mansion. My bare feet make no sound on the marble floor, but my heart does, loud enough that I swear it’ll wake the ghosts. The key was easy enough to find—taped beneath the drawer in his nightstand, as if he wanted me to find it someday. Or wanted to test me.

The lock clicks open too softly.

The door creaks when I push it, slow, like it hasn’t been opened in years. The smell hits me first—dust, metal, and something faintly burnt. The lights flicker on weakly when I press the switch.

The room isn’t what I expected. No monsters. No blood. Just… memories. Boxes, covered furniture, stacks of books. There’s a painting leaned against the wall, face down. A bed, smaller than mine, made neatly but unused.

And in the corner, a single toy car.

Red, with one side melted black like it had been too close to fire. I walk toward it, kneel down. My hands tremble as I touch it. The plastic is rough under my fingers.

And then—my chest tightens.

A flash.

Someone laughing—a child, high-pitched, running across a driveway. I’m chasing after him, shouting his name. Smoke. The smell of burning rubber. Screams that sound too close to my own voice.

The vision hits so hard I fall backward, gasping. The room spins. My head throbs, the air thinning around me.

“Elara?”

Adrian’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade.

I don’t even hear him come in, but he’s there now, standing in the doorway, eyes wild, breathing hard. “What are you doing here?”

I can’t answer. I can barely breathe. “There was fire—”

He crosses the room in two steps, grabbing my arms. “Stop. Don’t say another word.”

“It was real,” I whisper. “Wasn’t it?”

He shakes his head violently. “You’re confused.”

“I saw it!”

His fingers dig into my skin, too tight. “You saw nothing. There’s nothing to see.”

“Who was the child?”

Something flickers in his eyes—fear, maybe. Then it’s gone. “You’re not ready to talk about that.”

“I have a right to know!”

He exhales shakily, releases me. “You want the truth? Fine. It was your nephew. The accident that—” He stops, swallows hard. “You blamed yourself. You burned half your arm trying to pull him out.”

I stare at my arm, at the skin that’s smooth, pale. “There’s no scar.”

He turns away. “It healed.”

“No,” I say quietly. “It was erased.”

He freezes. “What did you say?”

“You had something done. Didn’t you? To me. To my mind.”

“Elara, please.”

“I’m not your Elara,” I snap. “I’m someone else. Lena Cruz.”

He spins around, eyes dark. “Don’t say that name.”

“It’s mine!”

He moves toward me again, slower now, softer, like I’m something fragile. “You don’t understand what remembering will do. You’ll break.”

“I already am.”

He kneels, cups my face like he’s done it a thousand times before. “I did this to protect you.”

“From what?”

“Yourself.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. My vision blurs again, and the room sways like the sea outside is pulling it under.

I try to stand but my legs give out. He catches me before I hit the ground, holds me against his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispers, rocking me slightly. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

His voice is soft, but my head feels like it’s splitting open. The memory pushes harder this time.

Fire again. The smell of gasoline. The sound of a woman screaming a name—my name. And Adrian’s voice shouting orders. A stretcher. A flash of blue lights. Someone crying over a small, burned toy car.

Then nothing.

I gasp as the vision fades. He’s still holding me.

“Sleep,” he says. “Please.”

I try to push him away but my body’s too heavy, like it’s been filled with sand. “You’re lying,” I mumble. “You’re always lying.”

His arms tighten. “Then hate me later. Just not now.”

Everything goes dark.

When I wake again, I’m in my bed. The curtains are drawn, the sea muted to a distant hum. My head throbs like I’ve been drugged. The key is gone.

Adrian sits in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, face unreadable.

“What did you do to me?” I whisper.

He looks up slowly. “You shouldn’t have gone in there.”

“I remember things,” I say. “Pieces.”

His gaze sharpens. “Forget them.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he says, and his voice sounds like a promise and a threat at the same time.

The clock ticks. My pulse matches it.

Finally, he stands. “You’ll thank me someday.”

“For what? For stealing my life?”

He doesn’t answer. Just walks to the window, pulls the curtains open. Sunlight floods the room, harsh and blinding.

The sea outside glitters like it’s mocking me.

When he leaves, I roll over and bury my face in the pillow. I can still smell smoke on my hands, faint and cruel, as if the fire never really went out.