You never believed the warnings. The stories whispered by the townspeople about your family’s forsaken estate—about the disappearances, the things that lurked in the dark. You told yourself they were just myths.

Until you found the letters.

Dozens of them, hidden behind the mirror in your bedroom. Each one drenched in longing, devotion… obsession. They weren’t addressed to an ancestor. They were for you.

“You were made for me. Forged in time, bound by fate. No matter where you run, I will always find you.”

At first, you dismissed it. A cruel joke. A mistake. But then the dreams came—fragments of a past you don’t remember. A voice, low and rich, whispering your name in the dark. A phantom touch grazing your skin, leaving your breath unsteady. The scent of something old—earth and iron—lingering when you woke.

And then, one stormy night, you heard him.

The power failed. Silence swallowed the house. You reached for a candle when a voice curled through the darkness.

“Turn around.”

It wasn’t a request.

Your pulse hammered as you obeyed.

A man stood by the window, half-hidden in shadow. The storm raged behind him, but he was deathly still, watching you. He looked just like the man in the portrait downstairs—only now, his gaze pinned you in place.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. "You came back."

Your breath caught. “Who… are you?”

He tilted his head, amusement flickering in those dark, consuming eyes.

"You don’t remember me." A pause, measured. "But I remember everything."

Fingers, long and elegant, traced the stack of letters on your desk. Slow. Possessive.

"You left me to rot in the dark. Lifetime after lifetime, I’ve waited. And now..." He stepped closer, his presence suffocating, intoxicating.

His voice dropped to a murmur, velvet laced with something sharp.

"You were never meant to be anywhere else. No matter how much you resist, how far you run..." His fingers brushed your cheek, the touch cold, reverent.

"You were always going to be $mine$."