After ending the call with Dianna, Elira lingered a little longer in the garden. The wind tugged softly at her hair and sleeves, as though the garden didn't want her to leave yet. But curiosity was stronger than the scent of roses and the quiet comfort of stone angels. She needed to know the house she was now living in—the place that would be her home, at least for the foreseeable future.
She walked back toward the mansion, the gravel crunching beneath her shoes, and entered through a side door near the solarium. The hallway inside was wide, with tall ceilings and gilded crown molding. It smelled like expensive wood polish and something distant, maybe amber or frankincense. Every hallway looked almost the same—marble floors, cream walls, sconce lights flickering softly along the walls, and silence that pressed against her ears like cotton.
She wandered aimlessly at first, turning corners, passing closed doors with polished brass handles, and peeking into rooms when she found them unlocked. A library with floor-to-ceiling shelves. A sitting room with velvet couches and an unused fireplace. A formal tea room that looked untouched. The entire mansion felt like a painting frozen in time, like everything had been meticulously arranged—but never used.
But then… she heard something.
A faint echo, not sound exactly, more like a memory. It drew her to the right, down a narrower hallway with tall windows and a different sort of light—a golden, gentle one.
She opened a door without thinking.
And paused.
The room was unlike anything else in the house.
Gone were the muted tones, the shadowed corners and cold richness. This room was… light.
Sunlight spilled through towering windows that reached from floor to ceiling. White curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. The walls were a clean, warm white, lined with thin gold trim that shimmered as the light shifted. The floor was a soft ivory wood, polished to a mirror-sheen. And in the center, beneath a pale crystal chandelier, stood a grand piano.
It gleamed like a pearl.
Elira felt something in her chest crack open.
She walked slowly toward it, her footsteps nearly silent on the floor. The piano was a pristine Steinway, its surface smooth beneath her fingertips. She trailed her fingers across the closed lid, then gently lifted it open to reveal the ivory keys.
For a moment, she just stared.
And then she sat down.
She didn't have to think. Her fingers found the keys by muscle memory, like a language she'd never forgotten. She pressed one note, then another, and the sound was clean, warm, lingering.
She began to play.
It was a soft, whimsical tune—one her grandfather had played for her on rainy afternoons, back when the world was smaller and her heart had known less ache. The melody rolled out like waves, slow and comforting. She closed her eyes and let the music carry her back.
Back to being six years old in a sunlit living room that smelled of coffee and old books. Her grandfather, tall and broad-shouldered, would lift her into the air and spin her while humming the tune she now played. Back then, she believed she could fly. That nothing bad would ever happen to her as long as he was around.
Her throat tightened.
She missed him so much.
Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but she didn't stop playing. If anything, she played more gently, as if coaxing her memories into the present, inviting her grandfather's laughter and worn hands and warm hugs into the light-filled room.
And then—
Clap. Clap.
Her hands froze.
The final note echoed and faded into silence.
She turned her head slowly.
Aleksei Volkov stood near the doorway, dressed in his usual black, the sunlight painting sharp gold edges along the side of his face. His hands were lowered now, but the ghost of amusement tugged at his mouth.
"Well," he said. "It seems my little storyteller has other talents."
Elira stared at him, blinking away the remnants of her tears. She cleared her throat. "You've been standing there the whole time?"
"Long enough." He walked forward, the soles of his shoes soundless on the polished floor. "You play with emotion. I expected you to be technically sound, perhaps, but not… this."
She closed the lid of the piano, her fingers brushing against it like saying goodbye. "My grandfather taught me. He used to play that piece every time it rained."
Aleksei's eyes softened, just slightly. "He must've been a good man."
"The best," she murmured.
A long silence stretched between them. Outside, birds chirped faintly, as if unsure they were allowed to break the quiet.
"Well," he said at last, breaking the moment. "Now that I've discovered your hidden gift, I might as well ask you to play for me."
Elira let out a half-laugh, half-groan. "You want me to compose lullabies between horror stories now?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You're already working overtime with your mind. Why not let your fingers earn their keep too?"
She rolled her eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at her lips. "So now I'm the full package—storyteller and musician. What's next? Interpretive dance?"
Aleksei smirked. "Only if the stories require it."
Elira stood from the bench and crossed her arms. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"I rarely enjoy anything. This is a rare occasion," he said simply.
She blinked, unsure how to respond to that. He always said things so casually, like he wasn't aware of how easily his words wrapped around a person's mind.
He turned toward the window, his profile cut clean against the light. "You're free until lunch. Explore as you wish."
Then he glanced back at her. "But if you happen to feel inspired before one o'clock, the piano room is always open."
With that, he walked out, his long strides quiet and smooth, leaving her alone again in the white-and-gold sanctuary.
Elira sighed, turning to the piano once more. She let her fingers linger over the keys.
Storyteller. Pianist. Prisoner?
She wasn't sure yet.
------
At exactly 1:00 p.m., there was a knock on Elira's bedroom door—soft but firm. She had been lying on the bed, staring up at the high ceiling as sunlight drifted lazily through the curtains. Her mind had been a mix of hazy nostalgia from the piano room and quiet anxiety for what the rest of the day held.
The knock brought her back to reality.
She stood and padded over to the door, opening it to find the same tall, stoic guard from earlier. He didn't speak—just offered a short nod and turned, silently expecting her to follow.
She did.
The walk down the long corridor was quiet except for the faint clicking of her shoes against marble. She'd dressed simply—dark jeans and a cream blouse, her hair tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Nothing too formal. Nothing too relaxed. A careful balance, as always, in a house like this.
They passed tall windows with heavy drapes, high archways, and ancient-looking portraits she hadn't noticed before. The air felt slightly cooler, maybe because she was heading toward the lion's den again. She was getting used to this place's stillness—how it always felt like something was watching even if no one was around.
The dining hall doors were already open.
And of course, there he was.
Aleksei Volkov.
Seated at the head of the long, polished table, dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up, revealing inked skin that snaked up his forearms. His tie was loosened, a glass of something amber in front of him—too light to be whiskey, too rich to be apple juice. He glanced up as she stepped in.
"You're punctual," he said. "I admire that."
"I wasn't given a choice," she replied, voice dry.
A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. He gestured to the chair beside him, and once again, she found herself sitting close—far too close considering the table could easily seat twenty.
The room was as grand as the rest of the mansion. Tall windows framed with burgundy curtains allowed light to fall in thick slants onto the glossy wooden table. Crystal chandeliers hung above them, glinting with subtle menace, like watching eyes.
Almost immediately, two servers entered the room from the side door, pushing in carts laden with covered trays.
Aleksei barely acknowledged them as they moved silently, setting out plates, silverware, and glasses of chilled water. The domes were lifted with careful precision.
Steamed vegetables, pan-seared salmon, garlic rice with fresh herbs, and a small basket of warm bread rolls were placed before them. Everything smelled divine—comforting and lavish at once. Elira's stomach let out a traitorous growl, and she shifted awkwardly.
Aleksei raised an eyebrow. "Hungry?"
"Apparently," she muttered.
"Good," he said, slicing into his salmon with practiced ease. "You'll need the energy. I expect a story worth telling."
Elira picked up her fork, taking a small bite of rice first. The flavor exploded on her tongue—lemon zest, parsley, buttery garlic—it was perfect.
"How many staff do you have in this place?" she asked between bites.
"Enough to keep it from collapsing," Aleksei replied without looking at her.
"How very specific," she said dryly.
He smiled slightly. "I find specifics ruin mystery. And I like mystery."
"Well, I like knowing if there's someone listening through the walls when I talk about ghosts and cannibal witches."
He looked at her, sharp and unreadable. "Are you suggesting you hold back in your stories?"
She met his gaze evenly. "Maybe I haven't told you the darkest ones yet."
A moment passed.
Then he said, "I look forward to them."
They ate in silence for a while after that, save for the occasional sound of cutlery against porcelain. Despite her earlier reluctance, Elira had to admit the food was exquisite. Every bite tasted like it had been crafted by a Michelin-star chef.
Once the plates were cleared away and their water glasses refilled, Aleksei leaned back slightly in his chair, elbows resting on the armrests. He turned to face her more fully.
"Ready?"
She wiped her hands on the napkin and sighed. "For what?"
"The story, Elira."
Of course. The story.
It was her job, after all.
Her words were her currency, her stories the key to this strange arrangement.
She leaned back in her chair and glanced toward the high windows, as if gathering inspiration from the sunlight.
"Alright," she said slowly. "This one's older. A memory twisted into a fable. It's called The Man Who Lived in the Clock."
Aleksei said nothing—he simply waited, expectant.
So she began.
---
"There was once a small town where the buildings leaned like drunks and the streets were always wet. It was the kind of place where no one stayed longer than they had to.
But in the middle of town, there was a clocktower—old, iron-boned, with a crooked spire and a clock face so faded, the numbers looked like ghostly scars. People said the clock didn't keep time, it remembered it. That it ticked for things that had already happened… and never stopped mourning.
In that clocktower lived a man. No one knew his name, only that he was tall, pale, and walked like something half-broken. They said he'd been there forever, that he built the clock with his own hands and was cursed to live inside it.
Children would dare each other to get close. They'd say if you knocked three times on the wooden base at midnight, he would answer. Not with words… but with something worse.
A silence that filled your ears with the sound of your own heartbeat. And if you didn't run fast enough…
You'd see him through the glass, behind the rusted gears.
And he'd be watching you."
---
Aleksei's face was unreadable, but his fingers tapped once on the table. "What did he want? This man in the clock."
Elira's lips curled slightly. "No one ever knew. But every few years, a person went missing. And the clock's hands would jump ahead, skipping an hour. As if time was being eaten."
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I like that one. It feels… personal."
She tilted her head. "Why personal?"
"Because time," he said, pouring himself more water, "has always been my enemy."
Elira didn't ask what he meant.
Some part of her didn't want to know.
She leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly. "Well, that's your lunchtime ghost story. What do I get in return?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Is keeping your life not enough payment?"
She shrugged, half-grinning. "I'd settle for dessert."
A soft huff escaped him—almost a laugh. Almost.
"I'll make a note of it."
They sat in silence again.
But this time, the quiet wasn't heavy. It wasn't thick with suspicion or fear. It just… was.
And as Elira sat beside the coldest man she'd ever met, inside a palace of secrets, telling stories like lullabies for demons—
She realized she wasn't as scared as she used to be.
Not because the place was safe.
But because she was starting to understand its rhythm.
And maybe, just maybe, it was starting to understand her too.