He came at dusk.
Like they all did.
Seraphine watched him from the highest window of The Glass Tomb, her fingers ghosting across the invisible barrier. The sky outside was ash and blood, a smear of color too loud for the quiet she lived in.
The man was tall, soaked in rain and shadows. His dark hair clung to his skin, jaw clenched against the cold. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, the flicker of the flame catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones.
She pressed her forehead to the glass.
"You'll leave too," she whispered to herself. "They always do."
But her voice trembled.
She didn't know his name—not yet—but she had watched him for six nights in a row. Lucien Vale. That was what the others called him, muttering stories in alleyways, trading myths like currency.
A man with nothing left.A man who wanted gold.A man who wanted out.
"You're just like them," she said again, almost pleading. "Aren't you?"
He stood in the clearing, eyes sweeping the empty field. He couldn't see the house. No one could unless she let them.
Yet every night he came back. Every night, he stared at the same patch of dirt.
"Why?" she whispered. "What are you looking for?"
He crouched then, slow and tired, and from his coat pocket, pulled out a paper bag. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a piece of stale bread. He broke it in half and whistled low.
A tiny, limping dog emerged from the woods. Bones and fur. Lucien smiled—just barely—and set the bread down gently before the creature.
He didn't touch it. Didn't speak. Just waited.
The dog inched forward and began to eat.
Seraphine pressed her hand flat to the glass.
"Oh."
A moment passed. The wind rustled the weeds. Lucien didn't move. He just watched the dog like it was the only thing in the world worth watching.
Something ached inside her. Sharp. Old.
She stepped back from the window, breath catching in her throat.
"He's still greedy," she murmured. "He's just kind to broken things."
But she turned to face the door. For the first time in years, her fingers curled around the edge of the lock.
Not to open it.Not yet.
Just to remember how it felt.