Sofie stepped outside the office, the cool night air brushing against her skin as she pressed her phone to her ear. It rang only once before Slacovich picked up.
"You're still not home?" he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of worry beneath it.
Sofie exhaled quietly. "We're staying the night. Something came up... Ania saw something in one of the paintings, and Nicholson's looking into it now."
There was a brief pause on the other end before Slacovich replied, "Do you need me to come over?"
"No," she said firmly but gently. "I've got it handled. Just keep things steady on your end. We'll explain everything when we get back."
"Alright," he said, though Sofie could hear the unspoken questions behind his words. "Keep her safe."
"I will. Goodnight, Slacovich."
She ended the call and stood still for a moment, eyes tracing the quiet corridor beyond the front door. Inside, the strange reflection in the painting still lingered in her mind, the unsettling feeling that they'd just peeled back the edge of something buried for too long.
With a breath, she pushed the door open and headed back inside.
Sofie stepped back inside the office, quietly closing the door behind her. Nicholson was already moving, pulling out drawers, lifting old ledgers off dusty shelves, and tossing open the locked cabinet he rarely touched. Scrolls, worn papers, and thick, time-stained books spilled across the long desk, and Carolina was clearing space as he laid them out.
"We might have stumbled on something bigger than we thought," Nicholson muttered, eyes sharp with focus.
Sofie joined him without needing to be asked, pulling a stack of records toward her and flipping through one by one. Names, signatures, faded ink. Her eyes scanned pages for anything connected to the portrait painters hired by the royals, especially during the time of Queen Nimpha and Uldeir.
"Look here," she pointed. "This one lists the artists appointed during Queen Nimpha's reign. There's a name that shows up twice, between her rule and the early restoration after the prince took the throne."
Nicholson leaned over. "Y.L… that signature again."
While the adults buried themselves deeper in records, Ania sat quietly at first. Her legs swung back and forth from the chair, eyes watching the flurry of movement around her. But curiosity tugged at her, like it always did. Without saying a word, she slipped away, walking quietly down the hallway toward the line of portraits.
The stillness in the corridor pressed in gently, broken only by the faint creak of the wooden floor under her steps. She stopped in front of the painting that had caught her attention earlier, the Queen sitting stiffly with the smiling man behind her, hand resting on her shoulder. Her gaze went past them, to the window painted in the background… and the strange, faint figure reflected there.
She stepped closer, tilting her head. Something about it still didn't feel right.
Slowly, she walked along the hall, eyeing the other paintings. Most of them were beautifully done but didn't hold her attention. She moved past them one by one until she spotted another canvas with something oddly familiar.
There it was again. The small initials in the bottom right corner: Y.L.
Her brows knit together. She went to the next, and the next.
Y.L.
Always those letters. And each painting that carried them seemed to have something unusual in the background, like something or someone that didn't belong. She looked closer now, eyes narrowing with quiet determination.
Back in the office, Nicholson's voice rose slightly. "We've got two timelines with the same artist, Sofie. That's nearly unheard of, unless the painter lived unnaturally long-----"
He suddenly paused, then looked around.
"Where's Ania?"
Sofie's eyes darted toward the hallway. "She went back to the paintings."
Nicholson stood up immediately, dust still clinging to his hands.
"She might be seeing something we're not."
Nicholson and Sofie didn't waste a second. The moment they realized Ania had wandered back to the paintings, they moved fast. The hallway wasn't far, but the silence in that direction suddenly felt… wrong.
They turned the corner and saw her.
Ania stood in front of the same painting, rigid, unmoving. Her small hands were clenched at her sides, her head tilted up, eyes wide. She wasn't just staring this time. She looked frozen. Like whatever she saw had reached past the canvas and gripped her.
"Ania!" Sofie called out, already hurrying.
But the girl didn't respond. Not a blink. Not a word. Not even a flinch.
Nicholson's breath caught as he moved faster. "Ania----step back!"
And then she screamed.
It wasn't loud, it was sharp. Piercing. A sound that cut through the hallway like glass shattering. Carolina came running from the office, heart racing.
They all reached her at once.
Sofie dropped to her knees, hands on Ania's arms. "Ania, look at me, what happened?!"
Ania's breathing was shallow. Her eyes, still locked on the painting, shimmered with tears that hadn't fallen yet.
"He---he was in the window… I saw him. He moved." Her voice trembled, but she didn't step away. "He was looking at me."
Nicholson turned his eyes toward the painting, gaze narrowing to the reflection Ania kept fixating on. The figure in the window… it had been faint before. Subtle. Almost hidden.
Now?
Now it was clearer.
Not perfectly, but just enough to make out eyes. A smirk.
And the faintest stroke of fresh paint.
Nicholson took a shaky step back. "That… wasn't there earlier."
Ania didn't cry. She didn't run. Her hands were still trembling, but she didn't move.
Sofie wrapped her arms around her tightly, her voice low. "You're safe. We're here."
Carolina whispered, eyes wide, "What kind of painter leaves themselves behind?"
Nicholson's voice was grave. "The kind who never really leaves."
Even in Sofie's arms, Ania's tiny frame trembled. Her breath came out in short, shaky gasps, but she didn't look away from the painting. Not once.
A tear slipped free, tracing down her cheek, but she didn't wipe it. She clenched her fists and shouted, voice cracking but fierce.
"She's not me!"
The air in the hallway tightened.
Ania sniffled, eyes burning. "Big sister Sofie isn't her!"
The adults froze.
Nicholson's gaze slowly shifted to the painting's reflection again—to the faint figure Ania had seen move. The one in the glass, smirking like he knew who was watching. Carolina covered her mouth, realization dawning fast. Sofie's arms tightened protectively around Ania, but her heart dropped.
They all understood.
Whoever the painter was—whoever the figure in that reflection might be—he wasn't just part of a painting.
He was trying to reach someone.
And he thought he already had.
But Ania had just drawn a line. A loud, defiant line.
The Queen he mistook her for was not here.
Sofie wasn't her. She wasn't her.
And Ania wasn't going to let him forget that.
Nicholson stepped forward slowly, his voice hushed. "He can see you…?"
Ania didn't answer right away. She just stared at the reflection.
Her voice, when it finally came again, was quiet but steady.
"He smiled when I looked… but not at me."
She turned her head slightly, resting it against Sofie's shoulder.
"He smiled at the Queen."
The hallway had fallen into a silence that felt… wrong. Too still. Even the air was different now, thicker, colder.
Sofie stepped closer to the painting, holding Ania close. But Ania didn't bury her face in Sofie's shoulder like she usually would. She didn't cry out or hide.
She stared straight ahead.
Her lips parted, barely moving, but her voice was clear.
"Stop it."
Nicholson looked over, confused. "Ania? Who are you talking to?"
But she didn't answer him. Her eyes stayed locked on the window in the painting, on the shape that seemed too aware, too knowing.
"She's not her," Ania said again, firmer now. "You're wrong."
A flicker. A faint glint behind the painted glass. Sofie's fingers twitched around Ania's arms, sensing something change, but she couldn't see it.
Only Ania could.
"I'm not lying," Ania whispered. "You want her to be the Queen… but she's not. She doesn't remember anything, because there's nothing to remember."
A long pause.
"You think if you push hard enough, she'll become her again. That maybe she'll remember you… or that you'll get to finish whatever it is you started."
She took a shaky breath. "But you can't make someone wear someone else's soul."
The silence stretched. Sofie and the others only heard her murmuring softly, like a child talking to herself.
But inside that space, between Ania and the window, something stirred.
The reflection in the painting shifted subtly, as if leaning forward.
Ania's brows furrowed. "I am listening," she said, frustrated. "But you don't listen back. You're just, talking and talking. You're not hearing me."
A beat passed, and then she said louder, stronger, voice breaking through the barrier that felt so far away from the others:
"She's not Nimpha!"
The walls seemed to groan under a soundless pressure. Sofie's arms flinched instinctively as she looked around. Nicholson paled. Carolina gripped the railing by the wall, her knuckles white.
But only Ania saw it.
The man behind the glass window in the painting had stopped smiling.
Ania's tone shifted, quieter now, heavy with emotion.
"I'm not saying she's not important. She's special. Sofie's always been special… but that doesn't mean you get to take her."
A faint ripple crossed the painting's surface, and a whisper of warmth returned to the hall.
Ania tilted her head, her voice now calm and firm like a mother scolding a stubborn child.
"If you really knew the Queen… you'd know she wouldn't want to come back like this."
A long, thin silence followed.
And then, for the first time… the painting responded.
Not with words. Not with sound.
But with a shift.
The man in the reflection turned his head.
He looked at Ania.
Truly looked.
And finally, he stepped forward, as if the glass he once hid behind no longer separated him from them.
Ania held her ground, her eyes wide but steady.
"Good," she whispered. "Now… we can talk properly."
The silence lingered like a fog, thick and reluctant to lift. The adults still couldn't see what Ania saw, but they knew better than to question it now. Something was there.
Ania let out a slow breath, like the weight of someone else's thoughts had just passed through her.
Then she turned to face them.
Her voice was clear, but her eyes looked older than her years.
"He wants to talk to the adults now."
Nicholson blinked. "He… what?"
Ania pointed to the painting, her small hand trembling just slightly.
"He said he can't leave. He's stuck. Trapped inside the painting."
Sofie looked at the window in the artwork, at the brushstrokes that no longer looked quite right. The man's reflection was still there, but it felt present now, like he was waiting.
"He said we need to bring him with us," Ania added. "Back to your office, Mr. Nicholson."
Nicholson hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Alright. We'll move it."
Carolina stepped forward. "Carefully."
Together, they moved to unhook the painting from the wall. The frame was old, heavy with dust and age, but they held it like it might breathe if shaken the wrong way.
Ania stood behind them, her hands balled into small fists.
"We have to listen now," she said quietly.
"And we have to hurry."