zar_ly

Trapped within an invisible pyramid-shaped house, Seraphine is a ghost bound by a curse to protect a treasure no one can see. For centuries, she’s watched the world from the shadows, longing for someone to stay with her—someone who won't leave once they discover the gold buried within the house's cursed walls.

When Lucien Vale, a desperate man with nothing left to lose, stumbles upon the legend of the house, he risks everything to find it. A man broken by poverty, haunted by his past, Lucien seeks only wealth—but when he crosses the threshold, something shifts.

Seraphine sees him for the first time, not as a greedy trespasser, but as a chance for love, for companionship. But as their fates entwine, she must confront a haunting truth: all who seek the house come for gold, and in the end, greed is always the thing that tears them apart.

In her loneliness, Seraphine has killed every man who tried to escape, burying them in the graveyard behind the house. Will Lucien be the first to stay? Or will his own darkness unravel them both?

Unfolded

The scent of something warm—tea, maybe honey—led him down the hall. The house was quiet, unnervingly so. Even his footsteps felt hushed, swallowed by velvet and glass.

She was already at the table, setting down two mismatched cups. Steam curled in the air between them.

Seraph sat with her back to him, still in that soft dress, hair a dark river down her spine. Her fingers moved up, gathering it in one graceful motion, twisting it into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

No mirror. No vanity. Just instinct.

A small thing. Stupid, even. But for a second—just one—his chest ached.

Why did that make my heart skip?

"You're late," she said without turning, voice light but edged with something almost… eager.

"You're early," he replied, stepping into the room.

Seraph turned, that bun slightly lopsided now. It suited her—like she wasn't trying too hard. Like she didn't know she was beautiful.

"You don't like tea?" she asked as he sat.

"I like it fine," he said, reaching for the cup. Their fingers didn't touch, but they came close enough that he felt the heat of her skin.

She watched him. Expecting something. Hoping, maybe.

But he stayed quiet, sipping slowly. Mind spinning with everything he wasn't asking yet.

She looked at him then with something delicate in her eyes. And for a flicker of a moment, he wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

Later that night, the house was hushed, dipped in silver moonlight. The glass walls made it feel like they were floating inside a dream—too fragile, too quiet, too close.

Seraph was already in the living room, curled up in her usual corner by the window, wearing pale silk that clung like shadow and light.

Lucien hovered in the doorway for a moment, unsure if he should speak. She looked too perfect in that stillness, like a painting. But then—

"You're staring again," she said softly, not turning around.

He walked in, hands in his pockets. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

"You're not the first." She tilted her head back toward him, smirking. "They never could."

He chuckled once and sat on the couch opposite hers, arms draped loosely across his knees.

For a few heartbeats, they just sat like that. Silent. Breathing the same air.

Then, she asked, lightly, "Are you married?"

"Or in love?" she clarified, not quite teasing. "Anyone waiting for you out there?"

"No," he said after a pause. "No one's waiting."

She nodded, almost to herself. "Good."

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "Because you'd leave," she said simply. "And I—" She stopped herself, smiling faintly. "I'd rather you didn't."

Lucien didn't answer right away. The room was quiet again. Just the sound of their breaths, the soft creak of the house, the wind playing over invisible glass.

She looked at him. His voice saying that name—Seraph—it undid her a little every time.

"You're beautiful," he said, almost carelessly. Like he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

Her eyes widened, lips parting. A thousand words tried to find her in that moment, but none did.

Just leaned in, slow and unsure, watching her the entire time, giving her every chance to stop him.

Soft. Slow. A whisper instead of a storm.

And for one breathless moment, they both let themselves believe it meant something.

Tea and Tension