The silence in the hidden nursery lingered like a breath held too long. August stood still, surrounded by relics of a life he never remembered—cradles and toys and gowns meant for someone not him. The air felt thick with ghosts, every shadow a whisper, every corner steeped in a sorrow that didn't yet have a name.
He wandered deeper into the room, steps soft against the dusty floor. His eyes searched for something—anything—that could answer the questions curling in his mind like smoke. But there were no letters tucked beneath the cradle, no scrawled notes behind the basket, no secret compartments hidden in the tiny wardrobe by the wall. Only silence, and dust, and time.
And then—
Something caught his eye.
Tucked into a corner near the velvet-draped wall sat a small chest, lacquered in deep red and edged with gold. Ornate and unfamiliar, it stood out against the muted tones of the nursery like a wound wrapped in ribbon.
August approached slowly, the ache in his chest growing heavier with each step. He knelt before it, hands trembling slightly as he lifted the lid.
Inside—
Jewels. Trinkets. Tokens of strange design, gleaming with forgotten history. A pair of ruby earrings, a brooch shaped like a phoenix mid-flight, a ring carved with the symbol of a kingdom August did not recognize. Everything was beautiful. Expensive. But not what stopped his breath.
There, nestled in the velvet lining of the chest—
A music box.
Delicate. Enchanted.
Carved from silver and mother-of-pearl, inlaid with gold filigree so fine it shimmered like starlight. It was a thing of such craftsmanship it looked as though it had been made not by hands, but by time itself. August lifted it gently from the chest, cradling it in his palms as though it might break from the weight of memory alone.
He traced the pattern on its surface.
Then, hesitantly—
He pressed the button.
The box clicked.
And began to sing.
August froze.
It wasn't just music.
It was a voice.
Her voice.
His mother.
Soft. Sweet. Familiar as breath and older than grief. The sound sliced through him with terrifying gentleness.
She was singing.
The same lullaby she used to hum when tucking him into bed, back when the world was made of candlelight and fairy tales.
August's breath shattered.
Tears welled before he could stop them. He clutched the music box to his chest like a heartbeat, like a lifeline, like a piece of her soul had returned just to touch him one last time.
The sob broke from him, silent and aching. He sank to his knees, the cradle just beside him, the floor cool beneath him, and let the tears fall freely. There was no one here to see. No mask to wear. Only him—and her.
He bowed his head to the cradle, as if in prayer. His knees kissed the ground, his fingers trembling as they held the music box tighter to his chest.
Beside the cradle sat an empty chair, its wood pale and curved, shaped by design into elegance.
He imagined her there.
His mother, her honey-brown hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her gentle hands brushing a lock of white from his face. Her smile—the one that turned night into safety. Her eyes, the color of warm autumn, watching him with a love so infinite it could never be caged by time.
And her voice—
Still singing.
The princess of the timeless town,
With silver crown and velvet gown.
She holds her sword, she bears her name—
Yet hearts grow tired all the same.
For though her hands are fierce and sure,
And though her heart is brave and pure,
She dreams at dusk, in secret sighs,
Of softer hands and emerald eyes.
A knight who swore to keep her near,
To guard her name and calm her fear.
A man of vows, of light, of flame,
Who whispers softly just her name.
She waits in towers built of dawn,
She waits when golden day is gone.
And in her dreams he takes her hand—
A promise made in shadowed land.
So hush, sweet rose, the night is deep,
And stars will guard the tears you keep.
For love shall come on faithful steed,
To kiss the wounds no crown can heed.
August wept silently, his shoulders shaking beneath the weight of the lullaby.
Not just because it was her voice.
But because it still lived.
Because it hadn't faded.
Because some part of her—some gentle, golden part—had been preserved. For him.
Or for someone else.
He didn't know.
He didn't care.
He stayed there, head bowed at the cradle, listening over and over as the music box sang. He imagined her voice brushing the edges of his hair. He imagined her smile never fading.
And for the first time in years—
He let himself be a child again.
Lost.
Loved.
Longing.
And utterly alone with the echo of a lullaby that refused to die.
As the final note of the lullaby drifted into silence, the music box gave a soft click—and stopped.
August blinked, breathless. And in that moment, through tear-blurred vision, he saw her.
His mother.
Standing just beyond the cradle. Wreathed in golden light, a vision so fragile he didn't know if it came from memory, dream, or grief. She looked exactly as she had in the portraits—honeyed hair, soft brown eyes, a serenity that could silence storms.
She smiled at him.
"My boy," she whispered. "Don't be sad."
His lips parted, a choked sound escaping. He reached for her, trembling.
"There is still someone who will never leave your side," she said softly, her voice like silk unraveling.
And as she spoke—
She began to dissolve.
Ash at the edges.
Light into air.
"No—" August gasped, stumbling forward, his hand halfway outstretched.
But she was fading.
Into wind.
Into memory.
Into everything he could never hold again.
His hand froze mid-air, caught between want and impossibility.
He sank slowly to the floor, knees to ground, breath shallow.
The ache was unbearable.
He wanted to go with her. To be where the hurt stopped. But his life—
His life was a cruel thing.
Whether he suffered or died, it seemed the world would not flinch.
Slowly, his trembling fingers reached again for the music box.
He pressed the button.
Once more, her voice rose from the heart of the machine.
August held it tight to his chest, tears slipping freely down his pale, hollow cheeks. His face, once serene like carved stone, was now stricken with silent agony. The soft glow from the nursery lamps revealed the stark lines of his face—his sharp cheekbones, his fragile frame. His health had waned. His strength thinned. But none of that mattered.
All he wanted—was her voice.
There he remained.
A ghost cradling an echo.
A boy carved in sorrow.
Like a broken painting, painted in agony, and left in a room no one was ever meant to find.
The lullaby faded into silence once more.
August didn't move.
He remained there, kneeling in dust and shadows, arms wrapped tightly around the music box like it was the only anchor keeping him from being swept away. The last echoes of his mother's voice hung in the air like smoke—fragile, fading, refusing to be caught.
His breath came in shallow stutters. His throat ached from holding in cries that begged to be released. But he would not scream.
Screaming wouldn't bring her back.
Neither would silence.
Slowly, the music box slipped from his grasp. It settled gently on the floorboards with a soft clink, resting beside his knees like a loyal animal that didn't know its master was dying inside.
August lifted his hand and dragged his fingers down his face, smearing tears across pallid skin. His body trembled—not from cold, but from the weight of everything left unsaid. His mother's last words circled through him again.
"There is still someone who will never leave your side."
Someone.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cradle's edge. A cradle he had never slept in. A nursery built for another. He didn't know if it was for Elias. Or if Elias was just tangled in something older, something deeper.
But her voice had said "someone." Not "something." Not "memory."
A living soul.
A heart still beating.
His breathing stilled.
Elias.
The name hit him with the gentleness of a whisper and the force of a hurricane.
He'd nearly forgotten. Not the boy—not the man—but the world outside this nursery of ghosts. A world where Elias lay wounded, confused, lost in a fog of amnesia while August drowned in memories too sharp to survive.
He turned his head slowly and looked over his shoulder, back at the door.
"I have to go back," he whispered.
His voice cracked like frost under boot.
But he didn't move. Not yet.
He sat for one final moment, letting the scent of old wood and fading lullabies wrap around him. He imagined her smile. Her hand on his hair. Her lips pressed to his temple. He memorized the way she had looked when she said goodbye.
He stood.
Unsteady. Hollow. Pale.
But standing.
His fingers brushed the music box once more. Gently, he picked it up and tucked it close to his chest—beneath the folds of his robe, against his heart, where it would stay. No one else would know. No one else would hear.
This voice was his alone.
With slow, measured steps, August left the hidden room. The door behind the wardrobe clicked shut, sealing its secrets once again in silence and dust. The nursery faded behind him like a dream too painful to keep—but too precious to destroy.
The hall outside felt colder than before. Less haunted, but no kinder.
August walked slowly, step's against the marble, every step echoing through the manor like a whisper. His body ached. His heart beat like a wounded bird against the cage of his ribs.
When he reached his study, he paused. Not to enter. Just to look.
The room was empty now. The ghost of Elias pinning him to the couch had vanished. His laughter, his scolding, his soft and reckless touch—gone. Only the memory clung to the furniture like perfume.
August didn't enter.
He turned instead toward the hallway leading back to Elias's chamber.
He would go.
He had to.
Even if Elias had forgotten him. Even if those green eyes saw him now as nothing more than a pale stranger. Even if August had to build everything again from dust and blood.
He would do it.
Because his mother was right.
There was someone who hadn't left his side.
And August would not leave his.
Not now.
Not ever.