The door creaked as it swung open, revealing a dimly lit hallway lined with old wooden panels. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged paper and something else—something faintly metallic, like the lingering trace of a storm.
Celeste hesitated at the threshold, her fingers tightening around Amelia's hand. She didn't like this place. It felt like stepping into a story that had already been written for her, one she wasn't sure she wanted to be a part of.
Nathaniel walked ahead, his footsteps steady, his posture unwavering. He had been here before. That much was clear.
Amelia glanced at Celeste before stepping forward, pulling her along. "Stay close," she murmured.
Celeste nodded, though she wasn't sure what staying close would protect her from.
The hallway stretched into a quiet, yawning space—a library, maybe, or an archive. Dark wooden shelves loomed overhead, packed tightly with books that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. A single desk sat at the center of the room, illuminated by the soft glow of a flickering lamp.
Behind it, a woman stood waiting.
She was older, her silver-streaked hair falling over one shoulder, her sharp eyes taking in the three of them as if she had been expecting them. There was something about her that reminded Celeste of the paintings in Amelia's apartment—the kind that told stories in the silence between brushstrokes.
"Nathaniel Sinclair," the woman said, her voice like a page turning. "It's been a long time."
Nathaniel nodded once. "Too long, Isolde."
Isolde. The name sent a whisper of recognition through Celeste, though she couldn't place it.
Isolde's gaze drifted past Nathaniel, landing on Celeste with a quiet intensity that made her shiver. "So," she murmured, "this is the girl who doesn't belong."
Celeste stiffened.
Amelia's grip on her hand tightened. "She belongs here."
Isolde's lips curled slightly. "Do you really believe that?"
Amelia's jaw clenched. "I don't need to believe it. She's here. She's real."
Isolde hummed, tilting her head as she studied Celeste. "And yet," she mused, "reality is such a fragile thing, isn't it?"
Celeste swallowed. "What does that mean?"
Nathaniel cut in, his tone firm. "We need answers."
Isolde's sharp gaze flicked back to him. "And what makes you think I have them?"
"You were the one who told me this was possible," Nathaniel said. "You were the one who warned me what would happen if something like this ever occurred."
Celeste felt cold.
Warnings.
That meant Nathaniel had known—maybe not everything, but enough.
Isolde sighed, rubbing her temples as if this conversation exhausted her already. "Sit," she said finally, gesturing toward the chairs in front of her desk. "If we're doing this, we're doing it properly."
Amelia hesitated, then pulled Celeste down into the chair beside her. Nathaniel remained standing, his arms crossed.
Isolde leaned forward, folding her hands together. "Tell me, Celeste," she said, her voice gentler than before. "Do you remember the first time you felt… wrong?"
Celeste's pulse stuttered.
She thought of the first time she noticed the crack on her wrist. The first time the world seemed to warp around her in ways she couldn't explain. The first time she looked at Amelia and felt like she was seeing her for the first time—and yet, had always known her.
Celeste exhaled shakily. "I don't know," she admitted. "I think… I think it's always been there. I just didn't notice at first."
Isolde nodded slowly. "That makes sense. You were never meant to notice."
Amelia's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Isolde tapped her fingers against the desk. "You said it yourself, Amelia. Celeste exists because of you."
Celeste felt Amelia stiffen beside her.
Isolde continued, her voice even. "She isn't just a girl. She's a creation. A manifestation of your longing, your artistry, your grief—woven together into something that the universe recognized as real. But that recognition is unraveling."
The words struck something deep inside Celeste.
Unraveling.
Like the crack on her wrist. Like the dreams slipping away the moment she woke.
Amelia was shaking her head. "No," she said. "No, she's not just—she's not a painting, she's not some—some thing—"
"I didn't say she wasn't real," Isolde interrupted. "She is real, Amelia. But real and permanent are two very different things."
Celeste's throat tightened. "So what happens to me?"
Isolde sighed, looking almost regretful. "That depends," she said. "Do you want to stay?"
Celeste felt Amelia turn to her, her grip on her hand like a lifeline. The weight of the question pressed down on her, heavier than anything she had ever felt.
Did she want to stay?
She had never let herself ask. Because the answer had always felt obvious.
But now… now she wasn't sure if wanting was enough.