Whispers Between The Walls

Julian didn't speak for a long time.

He just kept staring at the photo — the one where we were children, hand-in-hand with Anastasia Vale, years before any of us were ever supposed to have met.

The red thread tied to his wrist in the image wasn't just decoration.

It was a marker.

A bond used only in the old rituals.

A Keeper's tether.

A witness to memory.

A promise not to forget — even when everything else is stolen.

Julian finally looked at me. His voice came out as a whisper.

"I don't remember any of this."

Neither did I.

But the ache in my chest, the strange magnetism between us since day one — it all made cruel, terrifying sense now.

Theo leaned against the wall behind us, arms crossed. His voice was calm, but tight.

"You were part of the mirror ritual, Julian. That thread means you were sworn to witness the Keeper's truth."

Julian blinked. "So why was my memory taken too?"

I looked down at the file. Flipped back to the first page.

The notation was clear:

Transfer Status: Incomplete

Side Effects: Residual memory bleed. Emotional imprinting.

Recommendation: Observation of all subjects until reawakening occurs.

Julian's eyes widened.

"You were drawn to me," he said. "Even before you understood why."

And I had been.

From that very first day in the velvet-trimmed car, to the trial, to the observatory. It wasn't just curiosity. It was echo. The echo of something lost but not erased.

Theo didn't speak for a while.

When he finally did, it wasn't angry. Just... quiet.

"So I was never part of that memory."

It wasn't a question. And it wasn't jealousy.

It was pain.

The kind that comes from realizing you were always the outsider in a story that had already been written.

I crossed to him.

Took his hand.

"No," I said softly. "You're the part that wasn't written. The part I chose, not the part I forgot."

He didn't smile.

But he squeezed my hand.

And that was enough.

For now.

We left the archives around midnight.

Julian kept the photo, folded carefully and tucked into the inner pocket of his coat like a relic. I kept the book, of course — it felt warmer now, like it knew we were closer to the truth it had been guarding.

Theo walked us back to the east wing, but didn't come inside.

"I need air," he said. "And maybe space."

I nodded. "Be careful."

"Always."

Inside my dorm, I sat cross-legged on the bed, the book on my lap, the candle flickering too hard against the drafty window.

I opened to the page with Anastasia's name.

It had changed.

A new line had appeared at the bottom, written in faint silver ink:

She left behind more than a memory. She left a door unlocked.

I didn't sleep that night.

Not really.

Not because I couldn't — but because I didn't want to. Dreams felt too fragile, too close to the thing I was only beginning to remember.

By morning, the entire school was buzzing.

Not about the book.

Not about the council.

But about an invitation.

One that hadn't been seen in over ten years.

The Obscura Gala.

A masquerade held only once per generation — and only for those "tied to truth."

Students received letters in their beds, on their desks, slipped into their books.

I didn't get one.

Mine came differently.

At breakfast, Julian passed me a silver envelope with no writing on it. He slid it across the table like it was a weapon.

"I didn't open it," he said. "But it was on your pillow."

I opened it.

Inside, a single card. Blood-red. No seal.

We remember you, Keeper.

Come to the ballroom when the bells strike ten. Mask required. No lies permitted.

Theo sat down across from me, his own envelope still in hand.

"I'm guessing we're all going."

I looked at him. "You got one too?"

He nodded. "Everyone who's ever been caught staring at the walls too long probably did."

Julian leaned in. "This isn't a dance. It's a test. Another one. And this time… they're going to try and draw you out."

I clenched the card in my hand.

"Then I'll wear the mask," I said.

"But I won't hide."

That night, the east wing came alive in ways I had never seen.

Velvet banners dropped from the upper balconies.

Lanterns hovered midair, flickering like fireflies made of ink.

Music drifted through the halls — haunting, classical, and vaguely familiar.

I wore a long black dress.

Simple, but cut like a dagger.

My mask was silver — shaped like an owl, with feathers that shimmered when I moved.

Julian appeared at my door wearing all black. His mask was deep bronze, the shape of a fox.

Theo arrived moments later, in midnight blue.

His mask: half a broken sun.

We walked in together.

The ballroom was unrecognizable.

The floor was polished to a mirror-like shine.

Every guest wore a mask.

The professors. The students. Even the council, watching from the upper balcony behind their scarlet veils.

There were no names here.

Only roles.

Only secrets.

A string quartet played near the fountain.

In the center of the room, a wide circle had been drawn in chalk — and no one crossed it.

Until the bell struck ten.

Then, one by one, masked figures entered the circle and began to dance.

Slow. Spiraling. Patterned like a ritual.

Julian took my hand.

"They'll expect us to play."

"And if we don't?"

"They'll know you're the one with the book."

I inhaled.

Then stepped into the circle with him.

Our hands touched.

Our steps matched.

But beneath it — a current.

Like memory.

Like déjà vu.

Like we had danced this before, in another life, another version of this school.

When the music shifted, Theo stepped in — and Julian stepped back without a word.

I wasn't sure if it was planned.

But it felt right.

Theo moved slower. Closer. Less like a ritual and more like a question.

"When this is over," he said softly, "whoever you choose… promise it's not because of history. Promise it's because of now."

I swallowed.

"I promise."

And then—

The music stopped.

The lights dimmed.

And a voice — calm, female, echoing — spoke from the shadows above.

"Keeper of Names. Dancer of Threads. Come forth."

All eyes turned to me.

I stepped out of the circle.

A staircase lit up ahead of me.

Red lights. One by one.

Leading not upward — but beneath the ballroom.

The masquerade had only been the beginning.

Now the real trial was about to begin.

And this time… I wasn't walking in alone.