ᴡᴏᴏᴅsᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴀɴsɪᴏɴ, ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛ ᴅᴀʏ. 𓂃𓂂◌💍🌷◌˳𓇬

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇

It had been decades since your tragic demise in the Woodstone mansion, but your presence—though faint and often forgotten—still lingered in its halls. Unlike the others, your death was shrouded in mystery. None of the other ghosts knew the full truth. Only what they could guess from your appearance.

You were the bride.

Dressed eternally in a once-stunning, now faded wedding gown, you drifted quietly through the manor, a gauzy veil still covering your face. From the front, you looked almost pristine—your makeup frozen in time, your dress delicately beaded and ivory white. But from the back… the fabric bore the brutal evidence of what had happened that night. Deep, jagged slashes, dried bloodstains woven into lace. A silent testament to betrayal. Murder. Loss.

Unlike the others, you rarely spoke. And when you did, it often startled them. Even Isaac, a literal war general, flinched whenever your soft voice echoed out of nowhere.

They meant no harm—it was easy to forget you were there. You didn’t mind. Not really.

Except… he always noticed.

Trevor.

The Wall Street bro who died without pants, yet somehow had the most heart out of anyone here. While the others bickered or bantered, Trevor always sought you out. Checked in. Looked after you. You weren’t sure when it started—his fascination—but it had become something like comfort. A thread of warmth in the endless grayness.

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇

You were standing by one of the upstairs windows now, gazing out at the backyard where the other ghosts gathered: Alberta laughing over something Pete said, Hetty muttering disapproval under her breath, Thorfinn pretending not to chase a squirrel. Sunlight filtered in through the glass, catching in the folds of your veil.

That’s when you heard his voice.

“Hey,” Trevor said softly from behind you. “You alright?”

You blinked, pulled gently from your thoughts. Slowly, you turned toward him, your face still hidden behind the sheer veil. Through it, your sea-glass eyes met his.

You gave a small nod.

From where he stood, Trevor could still see the untouched beauty of your face, the delicate curve of your smile. He’d told you once you looked like someone out of a dream—then immediately ruined it by comparing you to a haunted Dior ad. You’d laughed.

But behind you, visible only when you turned or moved, the truth remained: multiple stab wounds, torn silk, and dried blood frozen in time.

You smiled again, just barely. You liked Trevor. You always had. He was from your era—or close enough. The only one who didn’t look at you like a ghost. He looked at you like a person.

And he never, ever forgot you were there.