The Stillness After

POV: Lucien

The door closed behind him.And vanished.

Lucien turned, breath catching in his throat—but there was no field, no sky. Just walls. Glass and shadow. Silence.

He was inside.

And so was she.

She took one step toward him, barefoot, trembling—and collapsed.

He caught her before her body hit the marble.

She was real. Warm and shivering in his arms, her breath ragged against his neck. She smelled like roses left out in the rain.

Lucien held her like a man holding a miracle. Like if he let go, the house might decide to take her back.

The room around them pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Candlelight flickered from nowhere. The air was heavy with dust and something sweeter—like a memory.

He carried her across the quiet hall, boots echoing on cold floor, and laid her gently onto the velvet couch near the hearth.

She didn't wake.

Lucien stood over her for a long moment.

She was—God. She was beautiful in the way paintings were beautiful. Timeless. Wounded. There was something in the curve of her lips, the tilt of her head, the streak of gold tangled in her hair that made his chest ache.

This was the girl in the glass. The ghost. The mystery.

But she wasn't any of that now.She was just a girl who had opened a door for him.

And now she couldn't stand.

Lucien sat down in the chair across from her, not daring to get too close. His hands were shaking, but he didn't notice until they touched the fabric of his coat.

The house around them was still—too still.

No ticking clocks. No creaking walls. No hum of wind.

Just the sound of her breathing.

He looked back at the spot where the door had been.

Gone. Not locked. Not hidden. Gone.

And with that, the truth set in.

He wasn't just inside the house.He was part of it now.