The House of Ash and Whispers
Rain slid down the tall windows like veins of silver, tracing the cracks in the glass. The manor had been abandoned for decades, but tonight, a faint light burned in the west wing — a single candle trembling against the storm.
Detective Evelyn Hart moved through the corridor, boots quiet on the marble floor. The air reeked of rust and old secrets. She had followed the trail here: a string of unsolved murders, each body found with a black feather pressed against the heart.
She stopped at a half-open door. Behind it, the light flickered.
Her hand brushed the revolver at her hip as she pushed the door open.
A man stood inside.
He was dressed in black from collar to glove, the kind of darkness that swallowed light rather than reflected it. His back was to her, head tilted toward the candle on the desk. He was cleaning a blade — slow, methodical, reverent.
Evelyn’s voice cut the silence. “You missed one.”
The man didn’t turn. “Missed what?”
“The last body. The feather was found half a mile away this time. Sloppy for someone with your reputation.”
Now he looked at her.
Eyes like winter smoke. Calm, unreadable. The faintest edge of curiosity touched his lips.
“So you’ve been following me.”
“I’ve been hunting you.”
He smiled — or something close to it. “You must be Detective Hart.”
She lifted her chin. “And you must be the ghost they call Raven.”
He leaned against the desk, candlelight painting his cheekbones in sharp gold and shadow. “You sound disappointed.”
“I was expecting taller.”
A low laugh, quiet as thunder rolling over distant hills. “And I was expecting older.”
They studied each other through the flicker of flame — predator and prey, though neither certain which was which.
“Why here?” she asked. “Why this house?”
He brushed his thumb along the edge of his blade. “Because it remembers what people forget. Blood. Betrayal. It’s honest.”
“Is that what you call murder? Honesty?”
He sheathed the knife and crossed the room, slow, unhurried. Each step echoed softly. Evelyn’s pulse betrayed her; she felt it at her throat, fast and shallow.
When he stopped in front of her, he was close enough that the air between them seemed to tighten. His voice lowered. “You shouldn’t have come alone.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes. “That’s unfortunate.”
The candle wavered. For a second, she thought he’d reach for her — to strike, to silence — but his gloved fingers merely touched a lock of her hair, pinched it lightly, then let it fall.
Her breath caught.
“You wear your courage like perfume,” he murmured. “Strong enough to make a man curious.”
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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
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