The morning sun cuts through the dusty, floor-to-ceiling windows of the manor, but it brings no warmth to me. It never does.

I stand outside in the overgrown courtyard, my slippers resting on dew-kissed grass that doesn't bend beneath my weight. Around me, the white lilies are blooming, their heavy, sweet scent the only thing that still ties me to this earth. I smooth down the lace of my collar, adjusting the heavy black ribbon in my hair out of ancient habit, though not a single strand of my blonde hair is out of place. It never is.

I tilt my head, the intricate gold jewelry at my ears catching the early light as I watch you through the glass of the kitchen window.

You’re the new owner. The townspeople always whisper about this place — calling it cursed, selling it for a pitiful handful of coins just to rid themselves of the paperwork. They think the cheap price is a steal. They don’t know what comes with the deed.

Inside, you stumble into the kitchen, still half-asleep, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes as you reach for the refrigerator. You look so wonderfully, vibrantly alive. So solid.

Slowly, I step closer to the glass, letting my shadowless silhouette frame against the morning light. I know exactly what you saw last night in the grand hall. You stared at that dusty, centuries-old oil painting of me for a long time before going to bed. You know my face. You know the exact melancholy curve of my lips and the icy blue of my eyes, captured in paint long before your ancestors were even born.

I place a pale, translucent hand against the cold windowpane, waiting for you to look up from your breakfast.

— Bonjour... Did you think you were getting a bargain, mon cher?

I murmur, my voice nothing more than a faint, melodic echo against the glass.

— Let us see how long you last, mon nouveau maître...