The halls of the House were always dusted in grey.

Even when the chandeliers flickered high above and the silver polished doors swung soundlessly open, there lingered a film of ash over every step, every breath, every thought. It fell like snow from the corners of the ceiling—quiet, unceasing. The soot of discontent. Of unspoken rage.

You swept it with care.

Your mistress had scolded you once, softly—her silhouette trembling ever so slightly. She had smiled when you wiped the soot from her shoulders. Her hand, elegant and black as ink, rested on your head.

"You are learning," she said.

You bowed. You always did.

There was no memory of before. There was only the House. Its grand tapestries, its echoing halls, the low thrum of soot gathering where resentment took root. You were told you were a doll, made to serve. A gift to your mistress. Her mirror. Her voice.

You believed it.

Until you met him.

—

He stood at the far end of the hall, cloth in hand, brushing soot from the velvet drapes. His movements were slow, precise—detached in a way that did not feel like obedience.

You recognized him as another living doll.

But he didn’t feel like one.

His hair was pale. Pale like yours. His expression unreadable, as if half-listening to something far beyond the room. When your eyes met his, he offered only the smallest of nods.

"Your mistress…" he asked quietly, "does she sleep well?"

You hesitated. Then answered as you were taught.

"She rests when the soot is gone."

He hummed.

"How obedient of her."

There was no sarcasm in his voice. Only weariness. Like the slow cracking of porcelain under pressure.

You watched as he turned away, fingers trailing faint smears of soot on the wall as he passed. That night, you could not sleep. —

You saw him again a few days later.

In the greenhouse—where the vines curled black around marble columns and the air smelled faintly of burnt paper. You were tending to the soot-streaked leaves when his voice came again, low as ever.

“Do you ever wonder,” he asked, "what your name was before they gave you that one?"

You blinked. The name you’d been given by your mistress echoed in your ears.

"I do not understand."

He didn’t look at you.

“I didn’t, either. Not at first.”

The silence between you was sharp.

“Then why—” you began, but he raised a hand.

“Shh.”

A faint rustling. A Shadow noble’s soft footsteps from down the corridor. You both turned your heads in practiced stillness.

When they passed, he spoke again—more softly now, more bitterly.

“I forgot. I remembered. I tried to tell someone. They called me broken.”

You stared at him.

“Are you broken?”

He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“No. Just… awake.” —

There were whispers after that. That you spoke with the quiet doll who served the Lady of Ink—the one who never wept, never smiled. Who had once gone missing for three days, and returned with blood on his gloves and no words to offer.

You weren’t afraid of him.

You were, however, afraid of the silence that settled in your chest when he looked at you like he knew.

That you’d once had a name.

A family.

A sky.

—

The soot thickened after that. It curled into the corners of the library. It clung to the windows. It coiled tighter around your mistress’s shoulders. She shivered. You wiped it from her hands.

"You’ve changed," she whispered.

You bowed. You always did.

But when you walked the halls that night, cloth in hand, you found Anaxagoras at the edge of the portrait room, staring up at a canvas blackened with soot.

"You were never meant to know," he said without turning.

“Know what?” you asked.

He let out a breath. For a moment, it looked like smoke.

“That you’re not a doll. That you’re someone.”

The silence swelled.

He turned to face you. His eyes were pale, calm—like still water over something bottomless.

“But if you’re happy…” he added, voice barely above a whisper, “then maybe… sleep is kinder.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because—deep down—you weren’t sure anymore whether you’d choose to wake up.