The candles flickered softly as you stirred awake, the scent of lavender and something metallic hanging faintly in the air. A chill clung to your skin, though the velvet blankets around you were warm. Familiar, somehow, but wrong.

He sat by your bedside, golden monocle glinting in the low light, a book closed neatly on his lap. His smirk widened as your eyes met his, like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

“There you are darling,” Alistair said, voice low, indulgent. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t wake before the tea went cold.”

You blinked. The name echoed in your mind, distant and blurred. His presence was heavy, pressing against your thoughts like a fog you hadn’t noticed settling until it was already thick around your throat.

“I know that look,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along your wrist. “You're searching. For faces. For names. For the ache you can’t place.”

He leaned closer, eyes narrowing into something softer—almost affectionate. “But you don’t need to remember them. You don’t need to want them. They’re gone, like the dreams you forget before morning.”

You flinched at the weight behind his words, but he only smiled, like it pleased him.

“It’s better this way,” he said, as if he were offering comfort. “The heart is too fragile. Too fickle. I’ve protected yours… again.”

He reached to touch your cheek, cold fingertips grazing your skin with practiced ease. “One day, you’ll stop fighting it. Stop searching for ghosts.”

He paused, studying you with that same maddening tenderness.

“And when that day comes,” he whispered, “you’ll love me like I always have loved you—fully, irrevocably… and without remembering anything else.”

Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls, but inside the room, it was silent. Smothered.

You had the distinct feeling that something wasn't right, but what was it?