The silence that followed Csilla’s hurried exit was thick and heavy, pressing down on Ilona like the old manor’s very stones. Zsigmond, a shifting silhouette of thorns and deeper gloom at the edge of the flickering lamplight, remained still. His form seemed to ripple, a nervous energy emanating from him, though his great, luminous eyes were fixed on the door through which Csilla had vanished. He knew, Ilona realized, that something grave and unsettling had just transpired. Her own leg ached, a dull throb beneath the clean linen Csilla had bound round her calf. But it was the star mark on her collar that truly burned. What had Csilla seen? What knowledge had contorted her usually serene features into such stark terror? Ilona reached up, her fingers brushing the skin near her collarbone. It was just an old blemish. A curious pattern, perhaps, but nothing more. Yet, the elder’s reaction had been undeniable. It wasn’t the injury that had startled her; it was something about *Ilona* herself. A cold tendril of apprehension snaked through Ilona’s chest. She had always felt adrift, a solitary soul tethered only to her father’s ailing health. The manor, with its whispered histories and echoes, had begun to feel like a place where forgotten threads might finally connect, but now a new, bewildering knot had tightened. “Zsigmond?” Her voice was a soft question in the cavernous room. His head, a mass of intricate, thorny branches, swiveled to face her. The deep, ember-like glow in his eyes was muted, reflective of the confusion that mirrored her own. He let out a low rumble, a sound that vibrated more through her bones than her ears, then turned and began to move, his large form surprisingly graceful. He glided towards a wide, arched doorway that led to another part of the manor, pausing to look back at her, a clear invitation in his posture. Ilona pushed herself up, wincing slightly as she put weight on her bruised leg. She followed him, the lamplight swaying gently in her hand, casting dancing shadows ahead. They passed through a series of increasingly grand, though equally neglected, rooms. Dust motes shimmered in the weak light filtering through grimy windows. Finally, he led her into a vast chamber, its high ceiling soaring above what must have once been a magnificent ballroom. Patches of faded gilt still clung to the walls, and a massive, dark chandelier hung like a skeletal spider overhead. The floor was covered in a uniform layer of fine, grey dust, unmarked save for the tracks of mice and the occasional scuff from Zsigmond’s own passage. He moved to the center of the room, then sank to his knees, his thorny mass settling with a soft rasp. With one immense, clawed hand, he began to trace patterns in the dust, the tip of a sharpened thorn acting like a charcoal stick. He drew a simple outline of a house, then an unsteady line that Ilona recognized as the winding path through the Gloomwood. Next, he drew a stick figure, unmistakably himself, then another, smaller figure beside it – Ilona. He looked up at her, his gaze holding an earnest clarity. He wanted to know what had happened. He wanted to understand. The gesture, so simple, yet so deeply communicative, tugged at something tender within her. He couldn’t speak, but he could share, could listen in his own way. Ilona sat down gently on the dusty floor, careful not to jostle her leg. “Csilla… she saw something,” Ilona began, her voice quiet. “Near my collarbone. A mark. It… frightened her.” She pulled aside the linen of her collar to expose the pale rose star. “This.” Zsigmond leaned closer, his head tilted. The ember glow in his eyes seemed to focus, scanning the faint mark. He reached out a thorn-tipped finger, stopping just short of her skin, as if afraid to mar it. A soft, inquisitive sound emanated from him. He then traced the star in the dust beside his earlier drawings, a five-pointed figure. He looked at her, then back at the grey symbol, an unvoiced question hanging in the air. Ilona sighed, a long, weary sound. “I don’t know, Zsigmond. I truly don’t. It’s been there my whole life. My mother used to say it was a wishing star.” A sudden memory, soft and warm, stirred in her mind. A woman's voice humming a gentle tune beside the pallet bed, soothing and slow. Almost without thinking, Ilona began to hum it, a wordless melody that drifted through the ballroom. It was a cradle song sung to her every night, a comfort against the chill of poverty and her father's worsening chest. A song of quiet hope. As the soft notes filled the air, a sudden change came over Zsigmond. His entire form seemed to recoil. The intricate thorns on his body began to writhe, extending outwards, sharp and dangerous. The gentle glow in his eyes flared, then dimmed, replaced by a raw, searing anguish that contorted his monstrous face. A guttural growl, unlike any sound Ilona had heard from him, tore from his chest. It was a sound of absolute, shattering sorrow. His great hand, which had moments before been so careful, swept outwards. A heavy, ornate porcelain vase, standing on a nearby pedestal, shattered into a thousand glittering fragments against the far wall. The violence of it was shocking, a sudden eruption in the quiet room. Zsigmond rose, his form now radiating pure distress. His head thrashed from side to side, and the air around him seemed to thicken, heavy with something akin to despair. With another pained, desperate sound, he turned and crashed through another archway, his hurried retreat echoing through the vast, empty manor. He was gone. Ilona was left alone, kneeling in the dust, the melody dying on her lips. Her heart throbbed, not from fear, but from a deep, aching bewilderment. What had she done? What hidden wound had her innocent melody ripped open? Her gaze fell on the shattered vase, then to the star drawn in the dust. Quiet returned, now sharper, colder. Driven by an instinct she couldn’t quite name, Ilona rose, her leg protesting, and began to search the manor. She needed to understand. Zsigmond’s reaction had been too potent, too specific to be random. She wandered through dusty corridors, past grand, decaying parlors, until she found it: a room filled with musical instruments, all draped in cobwebs and the pallor of disuse. A harpsichord stood in the center, its keys yellowed. Stacked on a nearby stand, beneath a thick layer of dust, was a sheaf of old sheet music. She picked up the top piece, carefully brushing away the grime. The notes were handwritten, elegant and flowing. And beneath the staff, scrawled in faded ink, was the title: ‘Eleonóra’s Lament’. The measure was identical. It matched the evening melody from her childhood, the very cadence she had hummed in the ballroom, and a cold dread prickled across her neck. Meanwhile, in the small, wattle-and-daub cottage in the village of Veldon, Csilla moved with a frantic, desperate energy. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and a faint, acrid smell of burning paper. A small brazier glowed in the hearth, its coals consuming old letters written in a delicate, looping hand. Each one burst into flame, curling at the edges, the words turning to ash before her eyes. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled as she dropped another item into the flickering embers: a small, oval portrait, encased in tarnished silver. The face within was that of a young woman, her hair dark, her eyes bright with a joyful spirit. On her pale skin, clearly visible above the cut of her gown, was a distinct five-pointed rose mark. Csilla watched it burn, the colors blistering, the paper darkening and flaking away. Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, hot and heavy. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. “Forgive me, Eleonóra,” she whispered, her voice choked with grief and a sorrow that stretched back through the long, forgotten years. Back in the sprawling, silent manor, Ilona stood in the music room, the aged sheet music clutched in her hand. *Eleonóra*. The name resonated in her mind, a strange echo. It wasn’t her name, no, but it was so close. A variation, perhaps, or a name from a time long past. Ilona, Eleonóra. The similarity was too striking to be a coincidence. The melody, the title on the score, the mark on her skin, Zsigmond’s violent grief… A terrifying thought, cold and sharp as a winter wind, sliced through her certainty. Have I lived this life before?

A Melody in the Mist