The chill of the Breukelburg archives still clung to Zeger’s jacket as he navigated the dim, winding path back to the manor. Yfke floated beside him, her usual ethereal glow muted, her form flickering like a faulty gas lamp. The vibrant silver that usually outlined her figure had thinned to a faint, translucent haze, and her movements were jerky, as if battling an unseen current. “Are you alright, Yfke?” Zeger asked, his voice softer than he’d intended. He glanced at her, a knot forming in his stomach. Her eyes, usually so bright with indignation or amusement, seemed distant, unfocused. She tilted her head, a gesture of confusion. “Alright? Is something amiss, Zeger? One moment I was contemplating the truly atrocious wallpaper in the archives – such a ghastly shade of mustard – and now… well, now we’re walking. Did I miss something terribly exciting?” His steps faltered. The memory of Hugo De Witt’s sneering threats, of Yfke clutching her head in pain, had vanished from her awareness. It had been less than an hour. The curse was accelerating, eating away at her recent past, turning present distress into empty air. “No,” Zeger lied, the word tasting bitter. “Nothing exciting. Just a particularly long discussion about the historical significance of… well, of old bricks.” He kept his tone light, but the casual lie felt like a betrayal. He knew, with a sudden, sharp certainty, that the treasure hunt could wait. This was more urgent. Back in the manor, the oppressive silence of the vast, empty halls usually soothed Zeger. Tonight, it felt suffocating. Yfke drifted through the drawing-room, her eyes scanning the familiar space with a peculiar detachment. She paused by the grand, dust-shrouded piano, her spectral fingers hovering over the keys. “I used to play this,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “Terribly, of course. My mother insisted. Said a young lady of standing must have at least one musical accomplishment. I preferred poetry. Much less reliant on perfectly manicured nails.” A faint, wistful smile touched her lips, then faded. Zeger watched her, a novel sensation prickling at his skin. Not apathy, not even annoyance, but something akin to quiet alarm. He pulled a worn leather-bound notebook and a pen from his satchel, the same tools he used to meticulously schedule his naps and snack breaks. This would be different. “Yfke,” he began, drawing her attention. “Your curse, it… it strips things away, doesn’t it? Pieces of yourself, pieces of your past.” Her head cocked to the side. “Strip things away? What a peculiar notion. One cannot simply lose who one is, Zeger. I am Yfke van der Meer! A connoisseur of fine prose, a patron of the arts, and the victim of a most inconvenient murder.” She attempted a haughty sniff, but her form flickered, a faint outline against the growing dusk outside the tall windows. “But you did forget what happened with Mr. De Witt,” Zeger pressed gently. “And you mentioned losing a word the other day. I think… I think we need to write things down. To anchor you.” He watched her closely for a reaction. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Write things down? Like a living, breathing ledger of my life? How wonderfully theatrical! Though I must insist on a more elegant pen than that stubby thing you’re holding. Perhaps a quill?” “We’ll make do,” Zeger said, flipping to a fresh page. “Tell me about Breukelburg. Not the architecture, not the canals, but the details. The little things. The names of the bakers, the color of the flowers in the public gardens, the scent of the spring rain on the cobblestones.” And so, the night unfolded. Zeger, the self-proclaimed paragon of laziness, sat upright on a dusty armchair, his pen scratching methodically across the page. Yfke, the spirited ghost, began to talk, hesitantly at first, then with a growing animation that brought a faint, reassuring solidity back to her form. She recounted tales of childhood scrapes in the old *Tuin van Seringa* public gardens, where the lilac bushes grew taller than men. She described the precise shade of blue on the ceramic tiles of the *De Gouden Koe* dairy shop, and the particular squeak of its perpetually ajar door. She spoke of her favorite, ridiculously frilly dress, a gift from a distant aunt, and the way her mother would scold her for reading poetry under the dining table during formal dinners. Zeger listened, absorbed. He interjected with questions, not of judgment, but of scientific inquiry, probing for specific details, cross-referencing dates she vaguely recalled. He meticulously documented her memories, creating a sprawling, disorganized biography that was, for the first time, purely hers. He learned of her pet canary, a tiny creature named Pip, whose song had been the only thing to soothe her nerves before a particularly dreaded social engagement. “He sang so sweetly,” Yfke mused, her gaze distant. “A tiny, perfect sound. My father always said Pip’s song was a balm for the soul. He kept him in a gilded cage, you know. For his protection.” Zeger paused, his pen hovering. The ‘caged songbird’ from her diary. It clicked into place, a piece of a puzzle he hadn’t fully understood. He remembered Hugo De Witt’s face at the archives, the possessive glint in his eye, the venom in his voice. A sharp, focused heat prickled behind Zeger's ribs, an urge to protect, to strike out. It was anger, raw and potent, an emotion he hadn't felt for anyone but himself in years. “What was the name of the cage maker?” Zeger asked, his voice low. He needed more details, needed to understand the metaphor, to give her memories substance. Yfke blinked, pulling her attention back to him. Her spectral form, for a moment, shimmered with a vibrancy it hadn't shown since their confrontation with Hugo. Her eyes, suddenly sharp, met his. A flicker of recognition, a deeper understanding, passed between them, bypassing the veil of time and mortality. “I remember…” she whispered, her voice solidifying, clearer than it had been all night. “He said he would never let the songbird sing for anyone else.”

Quiet Night in a Crowded House