The rain didn't just fall that morning—it roared. It lashed against the chapel roof like the sky was angry, furious about what was happening below.
Dozens of black umbrellas bloomed like dying flowers across the graveyard, but none of them offered comfort. Death had come! It also left a bitter taste in the air, thick and sour, crawling into lungs and hearts alike.
Aiden, twenty years old, but his soul already fractured. He stood there like a statue carved from ice. His mother's coffin was being lowered into the earth, and with it, every ounce of warmth and clarity he had left was vanishing, shovelful by shovelful.
He couldn't feel the cold, or may be he just didn't care. His mother's death wasn't sudden—it had been a slow descent, a crawl toward the inevitable—but that didn't dull the sharpness of it. If anything, the prolonged suffering had made it worse. It had given false hope, stolen sleep, built dreams only to smash them cruelly! And now, the end felt empty.
The priest's voice drifted through the air like static, irrelevant and indifferent.
"May she rest in peace…"
What peace? Aiden wanted to scream. What justice was there in a world where a soul so soft had to suffer so brutally?
He remembered the last night she'd spoken—her voice barely audible, her fingers cold and thin like paper.
"Promise me you won't let him forget me," she'd whispered.
"Promise me you won't let her erase me."
At the time, he didn't understand. Who was "her"? His father had mentioned no one. But now, standing in the storm, watching that coffin vanish into dirt, he began to understand. The answer revealed itself not in words, but in footsteps—calm, calculated, utterly unfit for mourning. Aiden turned his head just slightly, and then he saw her. And everything changed.
She didn't wear grief. She wore allure. She wore power. A tall woman draped in an elegant black trench coat with silver buttons shaped like daggers. Her umbrella wasn't practical—it was ceremonial, almost theatrical, held just far enough to let the rain kiss her cheekbones, highlighting every sharp angle of her beauty. Crimson lipstick, heels that sank into the wet grass without apology, gloves like shadows molded to her hands. She didn't belong here, and yet she moved like she owned the air. And when she stopped beside his father, placing one hand on his shoulder, Aiden's breath caught in his chest.
She didn't cry. Her face was calm—too calm. Not the calm of someone hiding sorrow, but the calm of someone completely untouched by the loss. She looked at the casket once, then returned her gaze forward, as if it were just another event in a long day!
Aiden's fists clenched inside his coat. Who was she? No one had introduced her. Yet there she was, standing beside Richard Blackwell like she had every right to be there! As if she were now a part of the family, of the story. As if she had always been there, watching from shadows.
When the crowd dispersed and the mud-stained silence of grief tried to settle, Aiden stayed behind. Even the gravediggers were gone now, but he remained frozen under the grey sky, watching the wet mound of earth where his mother now lay.
The woman, Elira, was standing a few feet away under a gnarled tree, untouched by the rain as though nature dared not disturb her. She looked at him then—not with pity, nor with apology, but with curiosity. Her stare wasn't casual; it was intentional, deliberate, almost surgical. It stripped him naked without removing a thread. She was not mourning. She was studying him.
Later, in the long, echoing hallway of the Blackwell estate, the silence screamed louder than thunder. The house that once smelled of cinnamon and old books now reeked of new perfume and foreign presence. His mother's favorite vase had been replaced. Her portrait had been moved. The air itself felt different—colder, controlled.
Aiden climbed the stairs, fingers grazing the railing she used to polish every Sunday. But when he reached her room, the door was locked. His chest tightened. Inside that room were remnants of her—unwashed scarves, half-used lotions, perhaps... her journals. Why had his father sealed it? Or worse, who had ordered him to?
He stared at the keyhole for a long time, heart pounding. And that's when he noticed it—something small, almost invisible, tucked beneath the doorframe: an envelope, yellowed and slightly damp from time. His fingers trembled as he retrieved it. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was hers. His mother.
To Aiden — Open only if she comes. A chill danced down his spine. She knew. Somehow, she had known about Elira. His breath became jagged. This wasn't coincidence. This was prophecy. The letter inside was short but sharp: "She is not who she claims to be. Don't trust her. And whatever happens, never let her in."
Aiden didn't sleep that night. He sat by the fireplace with the letter clutched in his fist, eyes bloodshot, thoughts spiraling like smoke up the chimney. The silence of the house was no longer peaceful—it was watching him. Judging him. And somewhere upstairs, Elira was moving. He heard the sound of her heels against the wooden floor. Slow. Measured. She didn't walk like someone new to the house. She walked like someone reclaiming her territory. When she finally descended the stairs, she wasn't in mourning attire anymore. She wore silk. Blood-red. Flowing. Dangerous. Her bare feet padded across the marble like whispers of temptation.
She saw the letter in his hand. Her eyes narrowed just slightly—but enough for Aiden to catch it. That flicker of awareness. Of threat.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, her voice soft, almost seductive, yet laced with something bitter underneath.
He didn't answer.
"You were close with her, weren't you?" she added, stepping closer. "Your mother."
She said "mother" like it tasted foul. Like the word itself was an inconvenience.
"She loved secrets," Elira murmured, her eyes now fixed on the envelope.
"But secrets rot when buried." Aiden stood, tense, alert. "Did you know her?" he asked.
She smiled slowly. "Intimately."
The word was a dagger.
Aiden backed away slightly, the warmth of the fireplace suddenly unbearable against his skin. Elira stood in the glow of the flames, her silhouette bending the light like something otherworldly. Her gaze wandered to the letter again.
"She never trusted easily, did she?" she whispered, taking another graceful step forward. "Always watching, always doubting. Even in death, she clings."
Aiden's jaw tensed. "You don't belong here," he said, voice rough.
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but into something more dangerous.
"But I do now," she said, running her fingers along the marble edge of the mantelpiece. "And the house knows it."
The wind howled outside as if warning him, as if nature itself rejected her presence. Aiden glanced at her bare feet—unbothered by the cold, by the world. She was too confident, too in control.
"How long?" he asked quietly. "Before my mother died… how long had you been here?"
Elira tilted her head. "Long enough to understand every corner of this place. Every shadow. Every locked drawer." She walked past him, trailing her fingers across the bookshelves his mother once arranged with love. "You can keep holding onto her ghost, Aiden," she said softly, "but ghosts don't keep you warm at night."
It was too much. The scent of her perfume—rose and something darker—was flooding his senses. His throat tightened, breath short. He wasn't a boy anymore, but Elira made him feel both powerless and exposed, like a child playing a dangerous adult's game. And yet... there was something else rising within him, something darker. It wasn't attraction—not in the normal sense. It was fascination mixed with dread, like the kind that makes you stare at a flame too long even after it burns you. She was a storm, and he was standing in the open, drenched, unable to look away.
She leaned closer, and Aiden could smell wine on her breath—rich, red, forbidden.
"Your father sleeps like a stone," she murmured. "He won't hear us." His heart skipped.
"Hear us do what?" he asked, the words dry in his mouth.
She only chuckled, stepping away, turning her back as if nothing had been said. Her silk robe swayed gently with her motion, clinging to curves he tried not to see but couldn't ignore.
"I just wanted to talk," she said. "We're family now, aren't we?"
The way she said "family" made the word feel filthy. Like a lie they both refused to correct.
Aiden turned away, running a hand through his damp hair. He needed air. He needed space. But Elira wasn't done.
"You know," she said, her voice softer now, "your mother told me something before she died."
Aiden froze.
"She spoke to you?" Elira smiled, a slow, venomous thing. "She begged," she whispered. "For you. For him. For this house. But even begging can't change fate."
Aiden's fingers curled into fists.
"What did you do to her?" he asked, voice trembling.
Elira walked past him, brushing her hand along his shoulder. "I simply outlived her," she said. "And now, I'm here to stay."
Midnight arrived without a sound, but the house was wide awake. Aiden sat on the edge of his bed, soaked in silence, the envelope still resting on his desk like a loaded gun. Every word in that letter echoed louder now. Never let her in. But it was too late. Elira wasn't outside the door anymore. She was inside, inside everything—his house, his world, and now, his mind. The way she spoke, the way her fingers brushed against objects that belonged to his mother—it was deliberate. She wasn't just taking over the house. She was replacing a ghost with a more seductive kind of haunting.
He finally stood, pacing like a caged animal. His chest ached from the war between rage and desire. No sane man would feel this way. Not after a funeral. Not for a woman like her. But sanity didn't live in this house anymore. Elira had slaughtered it with a smile. He walked to the window and stared into the night. Somewhere out there, his mother had once whispered lullabies. Now those songs were buried six feet under, and in their place, a slow-burning temptation was rising. He hated himself for feeling it. But hate, like love, was just another leash.
A knock shattered the silence. Soft, Rhythmic, Inevitable. He turned slowly, heart thudding in dread. He pretended was anger. He didn't need to ask who it was. He knew. The door creaked open before he could speak. Elira stood there in moonlight, wearing nothing but silk and shadows. Her hair was untied, wild as the wind outside.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, stepping in. "Thought you might be awake."
She didn't ask permission. She never needed it. She moved to his bookshelf, fingers trailing over the spines like she was searching for memories to rearrange.
"You read poetry?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Couldn't. She pulled out a worn book of Neruda poems—his mother's favorite.
"Ah," she said, smiling faintly. "So romantic. So tragic."
She flipped through the pages, stopping at a folded corner. Her voice lowered as she read, "I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
The words lingered in the air like perfume. She looked up at him slowly, eyes glinting.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Aiden took a step back. "You shouldn't be here," he said.
Elira tilted her head. "But I already am."
She let the book fall open on his bed like an invitation.
The final thread snapped. Aiden's thoughts blurred into static, heart screaming with warning, yet feet refusing to move. Elira crossed the room, one slow, purposeful step after another, until she was inches away. Her hand rose, not to touch—but to trace the air near his face, like she was drawing a map only she could read.
"We're not breaking any rules," she whispered.
"We're just writing new ones."
And then she leaned in—not kissing, not touching—just close enough for her breath to lace into his. Like a flame that refused to burn out.
She didn't touch him. She didn't have to. Because as his heartbeat screamed inside his chest, he knew—whatever this was, it had already swallowed him whole.