The house stayed in his mind.
Not the whole thing.
Just pieces.
The broken windows.
The vines.
The feeling.
Especially the feeling.
Adriano barely slept again.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of the estate gates and heard those same whispers from the dreams.
Not loud.
Never loud.
Just there.
Like someone speaking from another room.
Close enough to hear.
Too far to understand.
By morning, he gave up trying.
The archive was quieter than usual.
Sunlight stretched across the wooden floors while dust floated lazily through the air.
Somewhere deeper inside, Tomaso was talking too loudly about something Elio clearly did not care about.
“…and then I told him that if he fell again, I wasn’t helping him.”
“You are describing yourself,” Elio replied without looking up.
Tomaso frowned.
“That’s not the point.”
Adriano almost smiled as he passed them.
Almost.
He settled near one of the shelves, sorting older records the way Signor Bianchi had shown him.
Most of it was simple.
Births.
Names.
Trades.
Land agreements.
Nothing important.
Until—
His fingers stopped on a file.
A strange feeling ran through him immediately.
Cold.
Not freezing.
Just enough to make him pause.
The paper looked older than the others, the edges worn unevenly, as if it had been handled too many times.
Without thinking, Adriano opened it.
A symbol stared back at him.
A black rose beneath a crescent eclipse.
His chest tightened slightly.
He knew that symbol.
Or—
He felt like he did.
“…where did you find that?”
Adriano looked up.
Signor Bianchi stood a few feet away now, his expression unreadable.
Adriano glanced back at the paper.
“It was on the shelf.”
Bianchi walked closer a little too quickly.
“That section is usually locked.”
Adriano frowned slightly.
“It wasn’t.”
Bianchi took the file gently from his hands.
But not before Adriano’s eyes caught something else.
A word.
Half scratched out.
Veraldi.
The name hit him strangely.
Like hearing an old song he didn’t remember learning.
“Who are they?” Adriano asked.
Too quickly, Bianchi answered—
“No one.”
The silence after that was awkward.
Because they both knew that wasn’t true.
Bianchi exhaled quietly.
Were.
Adriano noticed the word immediately.
“What happened to them?”
Bianchi’s gaze lowered briefly to the file.
“No one knows exactly.”
That felt like another lie.
Or at least not the full truth.
Before Adriano could ask more—
The front door opened.
Voices entered with it.
Chiara.
And Matteo.
“You should’ve carried it properly,” Chiara was saying.
“I did carry it properly.”
“You almost dropped it into the river.”
“That happened one time.”
“That was yesterday.”
Matteo noticed Adriano first.
“Ah, archivist boy.”
Chiara looked over.
And there it was again.
That strange pause.
Not awkward.
Not uncomfortable.
Just…
Awareness.
Today, she wore darker colours, fitted neatly against her frame, the sleeves rolled slightly to her elbows.
Her hair fell softly behind her shoulders, catching warm tones where the sunlight touched it.
And her eyes—
Still impossible to ignore.
Hazel layered with gold, sharp when focused, softer when caught off guard, like now.
Adriano looked away first.
Which surprised him.
Matteo walked over immediately.
“You work here now?”
“For now.”
“You like it?”
“It’s quiet.”
“That explains why you fit in.”
Chiara rolled her eyes slightly.
“Don’t mind him.”
“I don’t,” Adriano replied.
That earned the smallest reaction from her.
Barely there.
But real.
Then—
Adriano’s gaze shifted toward the papers Matteo carried.
And suddenly—
A flash.
Quick.
Sharp.
Fire.
Not wild.
Controlled.
A room lit gold.
Voices arguing.
Then—
Blood.
The image vanished instantly.
Adriano blinked hard.
The feeling disappeared just as quickly as it came.
Chiara noticed.
“…are you alright?”
He looked at her again.
Something impossible.
Instead—
“Yes.”
A lie.
Signor Bianchi stepped in quickly.
“Matteo, your father’s documents are ready.”
The interruption broke the moment.
Matteo nodded, grabbing the papers.
“Grazie.”
As he turned away, Chiara lingered a second longer.
Watching Adriano carefully.
Like she was trying to place him somewhere in her mind.
Then she left too.
And the archive became quiet again.
“…you should stop asking questions about that family,” Bianchi said suddenly.
Adriano looked at him.
“Why?”
Bianchi hesitated.
Because there were many answers to that question.
None of them is good.
Finally, he spoke softly.
“Some things were buried for a reason.”
By evening, the sky had turned heavy with clouds.
The wind moved strangely again.
Restless.
Adriano stood outside near the steps of the archive while Tomaso sat nearby, throwing tiny stones badly at absolutely nothing.
“You missed again,” Adriano said.
“I know.”
“You’re aiming at the wrong thing.”
Tomaso squinted at him.
“…how would you know?”
Adriano looked toward the trees.
Quietly.
“I just do.”
Then—
Without warning—
A sharp pain hit behind his eyes.
Adriano stiffened slightly.
Another flash.
The Veraldi estate.
Not abandoned.
Alive.
Candles lit inside.
A woman is laughing softly.
Dark hair.
Gentle eyes.
Then—
Screaming.
Everything shattered.
Fire.
Shadows.
Blood against stone.
“Adriano?”
Tomaso’s voice snapped him back.
The vision vanished instantly.
Adriano realised his breathing had changed.
Faster now.
Uneven.
“You look pale.”
“…I’m fine.”
Again.
Always that answer.
But this time—
Even he didn’t believe it.
Because the memories weren’t dreams anymore.
And whatever had been buried in Valdoro—
Was beginning to remember him, too.