The faint light from the broken windows above casts long shadows on the steps, making the climb feel more daunting than it should. Each step creaks under my weight, echoing in the emptiness like a whispered warning.

As I reach the base of the stairs, hesitation grips me. My gaze is drawn to the top landing, where darkness pools like ink. Something about this place tugs at my memory, like a forgotten dream just out of reach. I can almost see Catherine standing there, her gaze piercing through the gloom, or maybe… watching him.

I blink, and suddenly, I’m no longer myself. I’m Catherine, standing at the top of the staircase. My heart pounds in my chest as I watch Silas below. He stands motionless, his back to me, staring blankly out of the windows. His shoulders are tense, his hands clenched at his sides. I recognize that stance—it’s the one he takes when the weight of his secrets becomes unbearable.

“Silas,” I call out, my voice trembling with fear and something darker. But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn. A cold dread creeps up my spine, the sensation of being utterly alone, even in his presence. I want to reach out to him, to shake him from his trance, but my feet are rooted to the floor.

The vision fades as quickly as it came, and I’m back at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles are white. I take a shaky breath, trying to ground myself. I’m Ellie. I’m not Catherine. Not anymore.

I force myself to climb the stairs, each step a laborious effort. The closer I get to the top, the more the memories flood back, overwhelming me. Silas’s vacant stare, his muttered words that I can’t quite make out—they echo in my mind, blending with my own thoughts until I can’t tell where his voice ends and mine begins.

At the top of the stairs, my vision blurs. The walls seem to shift, and I must close my eyes to stop the nausea. When I open them, I’m facing the windows, just like Silas was. The glass is cracked, dirt obscuring the view, but I can make out vague shapes of the trees outside, swaying gently.

I reach out, my hand trembling, and press my palm against the cold glass. For a split second, I see the reflection of a woman—Catherine. Her features are soft and delicate, with round, freckled cheeks that carry the warmth of a slightly tanned complexion. Her dark hair, styled meticulously and adorned with intricate pins, frames a face that is both serene and anxious. Her emerald eyes are wide, filled with a haunting mixture of fear and confusion.

But when I blink, it’s gone. Just my own reflection staring back at me, pale and drawn. The similarity is uncanny—my own cheeks, though less freckled, share the same roundness. My dark hair, less elaborate, feels almost familiar in its messiness. And my eyes, though not emerald, hold a shadow of the same unease.

I try to focus, but the lines between us blur. Is this Catherine’s reflection, or is it mine? My heart races as I struggle to separate our identities. Her rounded jawline mirrors my own, her tanned skin nearly indistinguishable from my slight tan. For a moment, I can't tell where Catherine ends, and I begin. The boundaries dissolve, leaving me in a disorienting void where her fears and mine intertwine.

I turn away from the window, focusing on the hallway ahead. The memories cling to me like cobwebs, but I push them aside, determined not to lose myself again. Not to her.

The hallway stretches out before me, long and narrow, its walls adorned with faded wallpaper that once might have been elegant but now is peeling and stained. Dim light filters through the cracked windows, casting strange patterns on the walls that seem to shift and writhe as I move past them.

A sense of unease clings to me as I walk, my heart beating in rhythm with the steady, oppressive silence that fills the air. The hallway seems to stretch on forever, a tunnel of decay and forgotten memories, drawing me inexorably toward the door at the end—the door to Silas' study.

When I reach it, my hand hesitates on the worn brass handle. The wood beneath my fingers feels cold, almost alive, as if the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to enter. I push the door open, the hinges groaning in protest, and step inside.

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The room is dark, save for a small sliver of light that cuts through the heavy curtains, illuminating the dust motes that dance lazily in the air. The study is a place frozen in time, the remnants of Silas’ life scattered about—books stacked haphazardly on the desk, a chair overturned, papers strewn across the floor. The air is thick with the scent of old leather and the faint, lingering trace of something sweet, like flowers long since withered.

As I step further into the room, a wave of dizziness washes over me, and I find myself gripping the edge of the desk for support. The walls around me seem to close in, and the shadows lengthen, pulling me deeper into the past.

Suddenly, I’m no longer alone. Silas is there, seated on the floor in the centre of the room, his back against the wall. He’s hunched over, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he cradles something in his arms. I take a step closer, my heart clenching at the sight of him—so broken, so utterly lost in his grief.

In his hands, he holds a small, worn children’s book, the edges frayed, the cover smudged with fingerprints. It’s Mary’s favourite, the one she would ask him to read to her every night before bed. The sight of it in his hands, the way he clings to it as if it’s the last piece of her he has left, is enough to bring tears to my own eyes.

“Silas,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem to hear me. He’s lost in his own world, a world where Mary is still alive, where he can still feel her small arms around his neck, hear her laughter echoing through the halls.

I move to his side, kneeling beside him, my hand hovering over his shoulder before finally resting there. He tenses at the touch, but then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leans into it, seeking comfort in the only place he can find it.

“It’s not your fault,” I hear myself say, though I’m not sure if it’s my voice or Catherine’s. The words spill out, soft and soothing, like a balm to his shattered heart. “You did everything you could. She knew how much you loved her.”

Silas squeezes his eyes shut, his grip on the book tightening as if the force of his pain could somehow bring her back. “She was everything,” he chokes out, his voice raw and broken. “Everything.”

I pull him closer, wrapping my arms around him as he buries his face in my shoulder. His body shakes with the force of his grief, and I can feel the wetness of his tears soaking into my dress. But I don’t pull away. I hold him tighter, willing him to feel that he’s not alone, that he still has someone here with him.

For a moment, there is silence, save for the sound of Silas’ ragged breathing. Slowly, his sobs subside, and his grip on the book loosens, though he doesn’t let it go. He rests his head against mine, his breath warm against my neck, and I can feel the weight of his sorrow lifting, if only slightly.

“Thank you,” he whispers, so softly that I almost don’t hear it. The words are filled with a deep, aching gratitude, and I can feel his love for me—no, for Catherine—flowing through the bond we share, as tenuous as it is.

I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the comfort of his presence, into the warmth of the connection we share. For a brief, fleeting moment, I am Catherine, and I am Ellie, and we are one in the same. His pain is mine, and in comforting him, I find a strange solace of my own.

The warmth of our shared moment begins to fade, and with it, the room around me shifts, as if the very fabric of time is unravelling.

As the memory fades, I find myself back in the present, standing alone in the dimly lit study. The silence is almost deafening, the weight of what I’ve seen settling heavily on my shoulders. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the oppressive atmosphere of the room clings to me, refusing to let go.

One final time, the whispered voice calls to me but differently this time. No longer did they call me "Catherine" in that haunting, distant tone. Now, they called me "Elizabeth," the word laced with a tender longing that made my heart clench. I follow the voice, each step feeling heavier, until I stand before a door that I know instinctively leads to Mary.

“Elizabeth.” The voice, now clear and almost tangible, sends a shiver down my spine.

My hand hesitates on the cool brass knob, a shiver running through me as I turn it slowly. The door creaks open, revealing a dimly lit room filled with shadows and dust. As I step inside, the air seems to thicken with an otherworldly energy.

The room is silent except for the faint rustling of old papers. I scan the space, my heart pounding, until my gaze lands on a figure sitting in the corner. It’s Mary.

“Mary?” I whisper, barely able to believe what I’m seeing. But this wasn’t the twisted, deformed figure I had braced myself to see. No, this Mary looked…normal. Human.

Mary turns towards me, her eyes meeting mine with an unsettling calm. “Hello, Elizabeth,” she says, her voice a soft echo of the whispers that led me here. “I’ve been waiting for you.”