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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

Seraphine stood before her mirror, brushing her hair with long, slow strokes, the silver comb gliding through like silk. Her gown was soft blue, cinched at the waist, delicate lace at the sleeves. She dabbed a rose tint onto her lips and smiled at her reflection—sweet, expectant.

She hummed a melody only the house could recognize.

A little dance, a spin, and she giggled. She looked like spring in human form, blooming just for him.

Lunch was ready. The table was set. The chandelier above glistened. And she waited.

The clock ticked past noon. Then two. Then four.

Outside, the sun began to bleed into the horizon.

Seraphine sat at the table, unmoving, eyes on the doorway. Her lips slowly parted, disbelief washing over her features. The food had grown cold, the tea gone dark.

A twitch at her jaw. A slow blink.

She stood up. Quietly. Pushed the chair back with grace, as though she still wanted to believe he was coming.

He's planning to leave. Like the rest.

Her hand slid across the table, knocking the porcelain cup to the ground—it shattered like ice.

She turned, graceful as ever, and made her way through the hall.

Lucien looked up. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the same clothes, hands tangled in his hair. His eyes were wide—haunted. He had not touched the food. He hadn't moved.

Seraphine entered the room, quiet as a sigh.

Her feet made no sound on the floor.

She was holding something in her hand. A knife, or maybe just rage made solid.

"You didn't come," she said. Her voice was too calm. "You were supposed to come."

"You don't want me?" she whispered.

He stood, slowly. Careful not to move too fast. Like she was a wild creature with fangs.

She walked toward him, step by step.

"I thought you were different," she said, voice trembling now. "But you're afraid too. You want to run. You all want to run."

He stepped forward and gently caught her wrist.

Instead—soft, steady—he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her.

She didn't move. Didn't kill him. Just stood there, stunned and trembling in his arms.

Lucien's voice was low, barely above a whisper, but steady.

"I'm here," he murmured. "I didn't leave."

A long, shaking breath from her chest. Then a broken sound. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

The Waiting Room