White Roses, Black Doves

A hunger through time-27

The house, once a prison of dust and resentment, transformed into a sanctuary of ethereal light. With Lucy gone, the heavy, suffocating weight that had pressed against Percy’s lungs for weeks evaporated. He was finally alone with the only thing that had ever mattered.

Over the next few days, he lived in a delirium of quiet joy. He spent his time drifting through the rooms, laughing at the way objects would shift when he wasn't looking—a book sliding off a shelf, a door clicking shut—as if she were playing a game of cat and mouse. There was an intense, palpable flirtation in the air; he would feel a phantom breath against his neck, a cool, gentle tug at his sleeve, or the sensation of her "hand" resting against his own as he held a glass. He stole kisses from the empty air, pressing his lips to the spot where he knew her cheek would be, and more often than not, he would feel the soft, reciprocal pressure of her lips against his.

He spent hours in the library, the diaries becoming his primary companion. He read of the man he had been—a creature of cold ambition, ruthless and cruel, a man who saw the world as a game board to be conquered. But the entries eventually shifted. He saw his own descent into an all-consuming, terrifying obsession for Alice, followed by the miraculous softening of his heart when she told him of their child. He read of a man who had been ready to burn his own empire down if it meant protecting the life they were creating. It was a mirror of his own soul, fragmented and jagged, yet yearning for the same light.

The closeness grew with every sunset. By the fourth night, the connection was so strong the walls of the house felt like they were vibrating.

As he lay in the bed, the moonlight bleeding through the curtains, he felt a familiar, chilling grace descend upon him. Her touch was no longer just a ghost of a sensation; it was solid. He felt her fingers trace the line of his jaw, then descend to the ruby necklace resting against his throat.

He closed his eyes, centering his entire existence on that one point of contact. The moment her fingers brushed the stone, the binding spell flared, pulling their essences together so tightly that the barrier between the living and the dead ceased to exist. He didn't just feel her; he knew her. Every caress, every flutter of breath, every movement was amplified by the ancient magic he had once woven. It was raw, desperate, and earth-shattering—a union that transcended the physical, reaching into the deepest, darkest marrow of his soul. It was, without question, the most profound intimacy he had ever experienced.

He was lost in the sensation, his world narrowed down to the heat of her touch and the weight of their combined eternity. When the final, overwhelming release shuddered through him, he was panting, his skin burning, his heart racing with the force of a man who had finally been made whole.

In the afterglow, his breath still hitching in his chest, he couldn't help himself. He wanted to look. He wanted to see the woman who held his soul in her hands.

Slowly, hesitantly, he opened his eyes.

At first, there was only the familiar darkness of the room. But as his vision adjusted, the air above him began to knit together, swirling like smoke in a draft. She was there. She was translucent, her skin glowing with the pale, silver luminescence of moonlight, her dark hair cascading around her shoulders like a veil of stars. Her eyes—those deep, soulful, heartbreakingly beautiful eyes—were fixed on his with a love that had defied death itself.

She was no longer just a presence; she was a vision. He reached up, his hand trembling, and for the first time in a century, his fingers met the cool, soft reality of her cheek. She leaned into his touch, her smile radiant and sad, and he knew then that the house was no longer a tomb. It was a beginning.

“Hello my love” she said in a ghostly whisper.

“ I have missed you so much” he said.