Chapter Seven – The Letters in the Dust

Lina stayed in the next morning.

She didn't paint, call her family, or even look at her dead phone. The world felt unreal, like everything had shifted slightly, and she was walking in a dream.

She'd seen her name in paint she didn't remember doing.

She'd felt truth from a guy she hardly knew.

And now… she needed to know if the attic was really talking to her or she was losing it.

The stairs creaked as she climbed.

The attic door groaned like it hadn't been opened in ages, even though she'd opened it last week.

But something felt different.

The air felt heavy, not dusty or stale, just… there.

Light from the window spilled across the floor. She stepped into it.

Boxes lined the walls: old trunks, plastic bins with labels like:

MOM'S WINTER CLOTHES.

XMAS LIGHTS.

LINA'S SCHOOL STUFF.

And one box.

No label. No marks. Pushed way back, behind the painting.

It wasn't dusty.

It had been opened. Recently.

Her hands shook as she pulled it into the light.

Letters.

Stacks of them.

Tied with twine, yellowing paper, carefully folded. Lina stared, like they might burst into flames.

The top one was addressed in faded ink.

To My Dearest Amaris, Wherever You May Wake.

—A.

Lina sat on the floor and unfolded the letter slowly.

My Amaris,

If you are reading this, you have returned.

I am somewhere in the dark, waiting.

I've left these letters in every version of your home, tucked in walls, under floorboards, places only you would look.

You don't remember me yet. That's the curse. Yours.

I remember everything.

You were born to the same soul so many times. I have followed that soul for centuries. Empires fell. Languages changed. But your eyes? Always the same.

Storm-colored. Curious. Wanting more than the world offers.

You always came back.

Every time, I had to wait until you knew me again.

Every time, I had to watch you fall in love all over again.

Every time, I had to grieve when the world took you.

Please remember faster.

I don't know how many lives I have left.

Yours,

Adrian.

Lina held the letter to her chest.

Tears welled up.

She didn't know what scared her more, that she might be losing it or that it all might be real.

Later, she walked through town, dazed. João noticed she was pale. Inês gave her a warm drink and didn't ask questions.

But Adrian wasn't there.

Somehow, that made it worse.

For the first time, she missed someone who hadn't even left.

That night, she painted again.

Not the man in the mist.

Herself.

Not as she was, but as she might have been.

Older. Wiser. In a dress that wasn't modern. Holding a flower she didn't recognize, but loved.

In the background?

A boy made of shadow and cello strings.

When she slept, she dreamed of fire.

Of glass breaking.

Of someone calling her name through the smoke.

Not "Lina."

"Amaris."