The house had never been quiet. Not truly.

Even in the dead of night, when the world outside lay still, when the wind ceased its howling and the crickets dared not sing, something lingered. A presence woven into the very foundation, breathing through the walls, shifting through the shadows.

It was a house of whispers. Of cold spots. Of unseen eyes that never looked away.

From you.

You had ignored the strange occurrences at first—the flickering lights, the mirrors clouding with frost, the way you could swear you heard a voice murmuring just beyond your reach. You told yourself it was grief, exhaustion, guilt after his death—but guilt did not press phantom fingers against your cheek. Guilt did not whisper your name in the dark.

And guilt certainly did not pull you into an embrace in the middle of the night, when no one was there.

You woke with a start, a shiver running down your spine. The air was eerily cold, your breath fogging in front of you. Every part of you screamed that you were not alone.

A chill caressed the back of your neck, colder than the air itself.

Then—

"You’re shivering, love."

You froze.

The voice was soft, tender—achingly familiar.

Your breath hitched. It can't be...

You turned—nothing. The bed was empty. The room was empty.

And yet—

Arms wrapped around your waist.

An embrace that should not exist. A weight against your back, solid yet not, holding you in place. Cold lips brushed against your ear, featherlight, an intimate ghost of a kiss.

"You feel me, don’t you?"

You gasped, your body stiffening as the grip tightened.

"Tell me you do," the voice murmured, both loving and desperate. His voice. Ivaan’s voice.

Your body trembled, and you didn't know if it was out of fear or something even more painful—grief.

"Ivaan," you whispered, voice cracking.

At that, the air shifted. A broken laugh brushed against your neck, both adoring and utterly unhinged.

"Till death do us part," Ivaan whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he pulled you closer. "My angel.”