After a long day at the hospital, I drove back to the manor. I entered through the service entrance, avoiding the main foyer cameras I kept active for the staff. I checked my watch at 16:55.

  “Good evening, Doctor. Everything’s locked up for the night, the west garden is finished,” Mr. Dubois reported as he headed toward the exit.

  “That will be all, thank you. See to it that the north path is cleared of leaves tomorrow,” I waited for his nod before he turned to leave.

  In the service wing, Mrs. Moreau was already waiting with her coat on.

  “Good evening, Doctor. Your dinner is ready. I've set the machine for you as usual,” she said, her eyes briefly meeting mine before averting her gaze to the floor.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Moreau. You're free to go,” I responded.

  I didn't wait for her to leave before moving toward the mudroom. I needed them gone before I initiated the decontamination protocol.

  Once the heavy thud of the door and the electronic chirp of the perimeter alarms echoed through the hall, I was finally alone. In absolute silence, I began.

  I sat on the bench and removed my right shoe, shaking out the small, flat stone I had used to fake my limp in the city. I placed the grey parka into a bio-hazard bag, ready for incineration.

  Then, I scrubbed my hands with surgical-grade chlorhexidine, watching the water turn pink, ensuring that any microscopic trace of the city, from the café’s dust to the imagined scent of Rose's perfume, was eradicated before I entered the main house.

  Inside, the grand hallway was still. The air hung heavy, as if the immense weight of the family’s past pressed down on the cold marble floors.

  Von Nacht Manor had been passed down to me by my great-uncle Augustus, along with the dust of his peculiar obsessions, including gothic novels, memento mori, mechanical automata, and figures of animal taxidermy.

  Staring at the antique paintings, one might feel the skin-crawling sensation of eyes following every move. Only the portraits knew the secrets etched deeper on the manor’s wall.

  I walked to the hallway mirror, framed with gold and gemstones, studying every contour of my reflection. I adjusted my collar and brushed my hair, making sure every strand was back in its place.

  There were times, I felt detached from the person staring back at me, as though I were observing a stranger through my eyes. The man in the glass was nothing but a metaphor to the world.

  Turning away, the study welcomed me with dark wood and heavy silence. The reading chair received my weight, the stillness broken only by the vibration of a phone in my pocket.

  I slid the screen to reveal an email from my assistant with a secure link to the patient’s pre-operative CT scan.

  My finger moved across the glass, swiping through monochrome slices of facial bone and tracing the delicate structures hidden beneath the skin. A honeycomb lattice of sinuses. It was a routine intrusion, a final request for my approval before I vanished for the week.

  Pulling the files from the desk drawer, I spread out the documents pertaining to the manor. I checked the sheets for the thirteen-digit tax number, alongside the Avis d'Imp?t from the past three years.

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  While the 1901 blueprints were largely obsolete, the Mairie remained oblivious to the renovations I did five years ago. To them, the permits described only a high-end preservation facility, lead-lined and HEPA-filtered.

  I poured myself a glass of whiskey and took a few drinks, allowing the warmth to settle before I crossed the room to the hidden door. My steps descended the narrow staircase as the temperature dropped.

  A quick glance at the wall gauge confirmed the negative pressure of fifteen pascals.

  Inside the suite, gold tapestries lined the walls, swallowing sound and creating a void where even a scream would vanish.

  I moved past the display cabinets, my fingers trailing over an Imperial Fabergé egg before grazing the colder, darker implements beside it. At the center of the room sat a pristine bed.

  I pressed the console, filling the silence with Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor, and sank onto the mattress.

  The CCTVs were perfectly hidden behind the display, clock and paintings, a network of encrypted servers buried deep within the library’s mahogany skeleton above us.

  While appreciating the chamber, I caught my reflection in the frameless mirror and stared into the glass, though the image was distorted. I ran my hands through my hair, guiding the dark, heavy silk of it into waves that felt effortless.

  The shape of the face felt familiar under my fingertips, and when I leaned closer, my breath ghosted against the silvered surface. The eyes, that strange piercing shade of flint and moss, were staring back.

  I traced the line of my jaw, a hard, clean sweep of bone that looked as if it had been carved from something unyielding. Even the slight hollows beneath my cheekbones did not make me look gaunt.

  Every detail in the reflection felt far away.

  The eyes that were once bright now looked sunken, and the corners of the lips drooped downward. My chest felt tight and heavy, as if something were lodged in my throat. I gulped, forcing it down, hoping it would settle.

  “One, two, three, four,” I said while inhaling.

  “Now hold,” I whispered, counting silently to seven as the air settled in my chest. Then I parted my lips. “And out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.”

  I stared at the man, mimicking my movements as I closed my eyes.

  His expression seemed to mock me.

  “Are you laughing?” I turned my gaze left and right, then returned my attention to the man. My hands shook in cold sweat, and my body felt light, though my nerves prickled like pins and needles.

  I adjusted my neck, trying to stretch. I moved to the side, but the man remained etched in the mirror.

  “Tired,” I said, staring at the reflection.

  Something suddenly shifted. The space felt surreal, expanding into a less suffocating entrapment. The silence of the room whispered a comforting alliance with the stranger in the glass. I exhaled, and the tightness vanished. I became one with the man.

  I adjusted the collar of my shirt and left the chamber, locking it securely from the outside. I ascended the steps back to the study, then returned to the bedroom to rest.

  Later that night, I was trying to sleep. Images of Rose kept popping into my head like a euphoria. Everything felt light; my skin felt cold and tingly. The grandfather’s clock gonged three times.

  My body ached with the sensation of wanting to see Rose again. I took a deep breath, sat up on the bed, and blinked my eyes twice.

  “It’s late,” I murmured, drawing my robe from the closet and heading to the study.

  Walking down the hallway of the manor, I heard the wooden floors creak beneath my feet. I reached the study and opened the door, where the eerie darkness seemed to hug me before I flipped on the lights.

  I sat in front of the computer, connected the VPN, and opened the browser.

  “I couldn’t shake the thought of not having all of Rose’s pictures. I knew I had my own digital copies, but they didn’t seem to suffice,” I thought to myself.

  My eyes felt heavy and dry from hours of browsing, watching videos of Rose with her old friends. I studied each face, noting the moles, the tattoos, and the scars.

  Rose was simply the perfect match; she hadn’t tried to change herself. Maybe a haircut, but that was it. Her eyes, an ocean blue, felt like somewhere I could sail forever. I was drowning in thoughts of having her here with me.

  “Her friends are no match for her. I don’t know what she saw in that Moroz guy,” I muttered while saving the photos to my computer.

  The screen flickered. I didn’t notice the time. I only realized it when the sound of the grandfather’s clock rang out.

  “I should sleep,” I muttered, disconnecting the VPN and turning off the device.