I awoke from a sleep that felt far too short.
The moment I opened my eyes, an ache spread through my limbs.a dull heaviness that made even the slightest movement feel like wading through water. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and medicine, pungent and unfamiliar, laced with something older, almost ancient.
My gaze wandered around the room. The walls were pale, almost ivory, broken only by old wooden beams stained dark with age. A single, high window let in a narrow shaft of golden light, dust swirling through it like tiny spirits. Despite the warmth in the air, the room felt... hollow. Clean but hollow. Silent.
I tried to sit up. My arms trembled under the weight of my own body, and that's when I noticed: both were completely wrapped in thick, linen bandages. I stared at them, feeling an eerie detachment, as if they belonged to someone else. My chest tightened.
Nothing looked familiar.
Not the room.
Not the bed.
Not even myself.
I shut my eyes and reached into the fog of my memory, searching for anything a name, a voice, a flash of color or sound. But there was nothing. Just darkness. The kind of silence that doesn't echo, only swallows.
Then came the creak of a door.
I flinched, eyes flying open. Instinct drove my head to the side. A man stood at the doorway, silhouetted by soft candlelight. He stepped forward, the wooden floor groaning beneath his boots.
He wore all white. Not like a doctor's coat, but something more ornate like robes with silver threading, draping like those of a high priest or royal healer from a forgotten time. His black hair fell over his shoulder in smooth waves, and when he looked at me, his eyes held a kind of ancient calm. He seemed like someone you would meet in a dream.
"You're awake," he said gently. "That's good. You've been asleep for a week."
A week?
I tried to speak but only managed a hoarse whisper. "Who...?"
He approached and knelt beside the bed, beginning to unwrap my bandages with careful, reverent hands.
"Your wounds have closed nicely," he murmured. "No fever. That's a relief."
Alarmed, I drew my hands back. "Who are you? Why am I here? What happened to me?"
His hands paused mid-motion, and a shadow passed over his face. He glanced at the doorway as if expecting someone, then exhaled slowly.
"I promise, all your questions will be answered soon. But first…" He stood and motioned toward a small table on the far side of the room. "Eat something. You must be starving."
I hesitated. He extended a hand—not forceful, just patient. I took it.
The dining table was modest but beautiful. A worn oak surface sat beneath silver cutlery and plates filled with steaming dishes stews rich with herbs, roasted vegetables, fresh bread still warm to the touch. A flickering chandelier overhead added a soft glow.
"Please," he said, pulling out one of five chairs.
I sat and He placed food onto my plate with deliberate care. Then, sitting across from me, he folded his hands.
"My name is Roland," he said. "I'm one of the caretakers of this place. And you… well, I was hoping you could tell me your name."
I lowered my eyes. The weight of the question was crushing. "I… I don't remember."
He didn't seem suprised. "That's okay," he said with a soft smile. "There's no rush. You're safe now. And until your memory returns, you're welcome to stay here with us."
I gave a slow nod, the gesture small but heavy with uncertainty. For now, it was the only comfort I had.
Just as I lifted my spoon, a knock echoed through the room.
"Ron? Is the girl awake?" a voice called. "We're low on wormroot and feverleaf."
Two men entered. The first was tall and broad, his arms burdened with bundles of drying herbs and glass jars filled with mysterious powders. The second was shorter, lithe, with shoulder-length silver hair and one could describe him as enchantingly beautiful.
The taller one grinned. "She's not eating? Ron, are you losing your touch?"
"doesnt feel like eating" I said quietly. "but Thank you." while roland just chuckled.
The silver-haired man stood behind the taller one and studied me with unsettling intensity.
They began collecting the untouched dishes. I noticed how quietly they moved—how effortlessly they passed one another, like they had done this hundreds of times. Roland stood beside me again.
"There's something I want to show you," he said softly.
Later, as dusk painted the sky in gold and lavender, he led me to a sitting room warmed by a roaring fireplace. Antique furniture and thick rugs made the space feel like it belonged in another century.
"You were found at the edge of the forest," Roland explained, his voice low and calm. "Unconscious. Your clothes were torn, your hands wounded. You had no ID. No phone. Nothing but this."
He placed a small object in my hands.
A locket.
Oval. Silver. Tarnished with age. I turned it in my fingers. It wouldn't open.
"We've tried," he said. "It seems… sealed. Somehow."
I clutched it tightly. A chill moved up my spine.
"I think," he added, "that it will open when you're ready."
---
The mansion was enormous—an ancient relic surrounded by dense jungle, so thick and overgrown it might as well have been a fortress. Each hallway stretched endlessly, walls lined with oil paintings and gilded mirrors, the air filled with the scent of polished wood and dried herbs.
I explored in silence. No clocks. No sounds of phones, or cars, or the outside world. Just distant footsteps and the occasional crackle of firewood.
When I stepped into the garden, I froze.
It was nothing like the house. Wild. Untamed. Moss-covered stones formed a broken path that led through archways swallowed by vines. Flowers bloomed in chaotic harmony lavender, marigold, nightshade.
And there he was.
The silver-haired man from earlier. He stood still as a statue, gazing at something far beyond the trees. I watched him quietly. His profile was striking—sharp, elegant, ageless.
He turned, catching my gaze. I expected a scowl. But instead, he simply nodded.
"You shouldn't go too far from the mansion," he said. "The forest doesn't like strangers."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated, then walked past me, leaving only the whisper of his voice in the air:
"Sometimes ignorance is for the best."
Meanwhile…
Far from the mansion, the world was unraveling.
In the heart of a gleaming metropolis, news anchors wore grave expressions. Cameras flashed as reporters surrounded a sleek black car pulling into Ville Tower.
> "Heiress Lily Acresia De Ville Mysteriously Disappears."
"Ville Corporation in Crisis."
"Husband Sean De Ville Takes Interim Control of Ville Enterprises."<
Billionaires speculated. Lawyers whispered in back rooms. Lily's face appeared on every screen—elegant, poised, perfect. A woman of power and grace. Gone without a trace.
Her penthouse was sealed. Her staff questioned. Drones searched the woods around her private estate.
No clues. No ransom. No sign of her.
Not even her locket.
The same locket that now lay tucked beneath the pants of a girl with no memory, walking barefoot through a garden where time stood still.
And so, the world searched for Lily Acresia De Ville
While Lily, unknown even to herself, wandered the corridors of a mansion the world had long forgotten.
Her story was no longer in their hands.
It had only just begun.