Noctis had made up his mind.

  The next destination was the library.

  He didn’t know whether he would find anything of importance there, but it was the only place left that felt untouched—uncharted. The night was silent, as it always was. Yet Silas’s inhuman smile lingered in his thoughts, sending a shiver down his spine every time it surfaced.

  He woke the next morning with the same resolve. The library.

  The only concern gnawing at him was whether he would even be allowed inside. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened on the stairs. Pushing the thought aside, he made his way down the corridors.

  As he passed through the same hallway that had unsettled him before, something felt… off.

  The paintings.

  The scenic landscapes that once adorned the walls were gone. In their place were paintings of plants and flowers—lush, detailed, almost alive. Only the portraits of the Vexwood family remained unchanged.

  Even so, there was no sign of Ilya Vexwood.

  And strangely enough… no sign of Ian Vexwood, either.

  The entire manor bore his name, yet there wasn’t a single portrait, painting, or trace of his presence anywhere in the mansion.

  The absence gnawed at him more than the changes themselves.

  A family mansion without its master was like a body without a spine—still standing, but wrong in a way that was difficult to name. Noctis found himself staring at the empty spaces between frames, half-expecting Ian Vexwood’s face to bleed through the canvas, late to his own portrait.

  Nothing appeared.

  The walls remained obediently silent.

  As Noctis stood there, a maid passed by carrying folded clothes toward the laundry. He hesitated, then called out to her.

  “Um, excuse me. May I have a moment of your time?” he asked gently.

  The maid turned slowly, glanced at him, and replied curtly,

  “What is it? Make it fast. I don’t have time for this.”

  Well, Noctis thought, she’s pretty rude for someone doomed to carry the same clothes every day for eternity.

  Regaining his composure, he asked, “Do the paintings here change every day?”

  The maid narrowed her eyes. “Why do you think that?”

  “Well… I heard from some of the other maids that the paintings don’t stay the same,” Noctis said carefully.

  “Hmph. Then you must have a problem with your hearing,” she replied smugly. “That’s definitely not the case.”

  “I see,” Noctis said quietly. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  She paused, eyeing him. “Wait. Judging by your outfit, aren’t you a gardener? What are you doing inside the mansion?”

  “I—I was just trying to get to know the place better,” he answered.

  “A gardener doesn’t need to know the inside of the mansion,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “Shouldn’t you be in the garden?”

  Noctis clenched his jaw but kept his tone steady.

  “I was just taken aback by how large this place is. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Is that so?” she scoffed. “Then I’ll be going. I don’t have any more time to waste here.”

  Then why waste it being an asshole to someone you don’t know? he muttered under his breath.

  “What was that?” she snapped.

  “N-Nothing,” Noctis said quickly. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Hmph. Take care,” she replied, already walking away.

  Left alone again, Noctis turned back to the paintings.

  How did they change?

  When time loops, everything should return to the way it was before. So why this?

  This can’t be a coincidence.

  He let the thought linger, then forced himself to move on. Keeping it in the back of his mind, he finally reached the entrance to the library.

  It wasn’t grand—but it was elegant, almost deliberate. Before entering, he glanced behind him, half-expecting someone to stop him, the memory of the staircase still fresh.

  No one did.

  He stepped inside, and it felt as though the mansion itself had granted permission.

  The library was empty—not a single servant in sight. Yet it was immaculately clean. The air carried the scent of raw timber, lacquer, and old books—a faintly sweet, resinous smell that reminded him of carpentry shops and unopened rooms.

  The silence inside was heavier than elsewhere in the mansion. It wasn’t the absence of sound, but the feeling that sound had once existed here and had been carefully removed. Even his footsteps seemed reluctant to echo, as though the floor itself was listening.

  Noctis ran a finger along the spines of the books. There was dust—but not much. Enough to suggest age, not neglect. As if someone ensured the room stayed preserved, untouched by time yet never truly alive.

  Noctis wandered aimlessly, unsure of what he was searching for. He browsed shelves, pulled out random books, even checked the tops of the shelves—anything that felt out of place.

  Then he saw it.

  A single table and chair sat in the corner, isolated from the rest. A book lay neatly on top.

  He approached and picked it up.

  Slim. Unremarkable.

  A plain white cover.

  The title, written in mismatched colours, read:

  100 Ways To Win Your Family’s Favor

  “…What kind of title is this?” Noctis muttered.

  As he flipped it open, something slipped out.

  A folded piece of paper fell to the floor.

  He picked it up and unfolded it, immediately noticing the uneven handwriting. The grammar was poor, the words crowded and unsure—clearly written by a child.

  The letter read:

  Date June 3rd, 2024

  To my daddy,

  I always wait but you never come. I wait in my room all alone with only my toys to play with. You never have time for me you always working. Why you don’t even look at me? Tomorrow is my birthday but you still won’t even come to see me. I am writing this hoping you at least wish me but it probably won’t even reach you.

  The handwriting wavered in places, the ink pressing too hard in others. Noctis could almost imagine the way the child must have written it—hesitant, hopeful, pausing between lines as if waiting for someone to appear beside her.

  He folded the letter once more, more carefully this time. The paper felt fragile in his hands, like it might crumble if handled without care. Whatever had happened on June fourth, it had started long before the day itself.

  Noctis lowered the paper slowly.

  A child.

  There was only one child ever mentioned in this mansion.

  “So… today is her birthday,” he whispered.

  He slipped the note into his pocket and returned to his room.

  Sitting there, thinking, another memory surfaced—the previous gardener’s diary. The man had encountered the girl near the garden without grass. But how? And why there?

  Lost in thought, a sudden knock broke the silence.

  It was loud. Violent.

  As if the person on the other side was angry.

  More unsettling than that was the fact that someone had come to his room at all.

  This place was supposed to be isolated from the mansion’s rules.

  So, who was knocking?