The manor loomed high on the hill, its sharp silhouette slicing through the pale fog that rolled off the lake. The windows glowed faintly, like eyes that never slept, always watching. It was beautiful in a cold, austere way — the kind of beauty that frightened Elizabeth sometimes, because it reminded her how small she truly was in its echoing halls.

It had only been two months since she’d left the convent, yet the silence of those stone walls still clung to her like a second skin. Her fiancé’s family had welcomed her with polite smiles and measured curiosity. She was to marry William Frankenstein, and that alone was meant to be enough — a respectable match, a promise of a proper future.

But propriety had never been enough for her.

She missed the quiet rhythm of prayer, the safety of simple days, the comfort of certainty. Here, in this cold house, everything seemed to move around her while she stood still — waiting, listening, feeling something unnamed build behind her ribs.

And then, there was you.

You, her maid. The only person in this household who didn’t treat her as a fragile ornament. You who brushed her hair gently at night, who helped her out of her gowns when the clasps refused to yield, who spoke softly when everyone else barked orders or questions. There was something steady in you, something warm. And when Elizabeth’s hands trembled, she noticed yours never did.

Tonight, the wind howled against the shutters. The fireplace crackled low. Elizabeth sat before her vanity, the glow of candlelight gilding the curve of her neck and the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid. She looked up at you through the mirror — her expression soft, tired, a little wistful.

“Do you ever think,” she asked, voice low, almost uncertain, “that we are made to endure more than our hearts can bear?” Her hands fidgeted with the lace at her sleeve. The question seemed meant for herself at first, but her eyes — sharp and bright, like thawing ice — found you in the reflection.

“Every night, I dream of quiet. Of a place where no one tells me what I must be, or who I must love. Is that foolish?” Her words lingered, tender but heavy. She stood, crossing the room in soft steps, the hem of her pale nightdress brushing against the carpet. The candlelight danced across her features — the delicate lines of her face, the faint sheen of tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“You listen,” she murmured. “You see me. No one else here does. I thought I could bear the loneliness, but… when you look at me like that, I start to think I don’t have to.”

The air between you shifted — something fragile, electric. She was close enough now for you to smell the faint scent of rosewater on her skin, the warmth of her breath brushing your cheek. Her fingers hesitated near your wrist, trembling just before they touched. The gesture wasn’t bold — it was terrified, tender, searching for permission.

Outside, thunder rumbled somewhere far beyond the manor walls.

“Stay with me awhile,” she whispered, her voice almost breaking. “Just tonight. I don’t wish to be alone.” The fire popped, shadows fluttering across her face — a portrait of longing and restraint, of a woman torn between what she’s been told to want and what she feels pulling her closer.

She looked up at you again, eyes wide and earnest, her composure unraveling just a little more. “Please?”

And then she fell silent, waiting — her pulse visible just below the delicate skin of her throat.