Part I

October 14th.

The day’s evocation rang through her mind like shifting winds. Unseen, but existing.

Just like what she set out to do.

Five hours had passed. Maybe six. She had been sitting inside the reinforced wooden carriages of a steadily treading steam train. As landscapes changed, leaves had been slowly cascading down from the trees.

She had witnessed it happening, peering out from the window side next to her carriage: from the open area midway until they had arrived, near the old train station. She should be exhausted, perhaps shivering or freezing from the cold of autumn.

And yet, she wasn’t tired.

She had been standing in front of a house for five minutes.

The wind carried deciduous leaves, dozens detaching dancing in front of and behind her. Her auburn hair, untied but neat, caught the wind.

She stood nearly rigid, perhaps admiring the structure of the house. She wore a long beige trench coat, with fur that had been fashioned from unknown origin. Her free hand rested on her chest, pulse quickening. However, she knew she wasn’t anxious.

At least, not in the way she’d expected.

Her other hand was clutching a notebook. Slightly worn. Used. Her name was written on the cover, as if she might forget.

Charlotte Foster.

She was an investigative journalist for a news company in London. Print is a decaying form—stories run through the web now. It’s why she brought a small suitcase with her. She would be there for a few days.

Edinburgh.

She remembered what her editor, Brandon McGuinness, had said. The conversation had not been pleasant. He thought she was chasing a myth.

“Miss Foster,” he said. “You’re a bright young lady, and I respect that. But you’re chasing a literal ghost story.”

Charlotte wasn’t listening. She had packed all the things she needed from her workstation.

He sighed. “You’re not listening.”

“Because you’re gonna stop me, like everyone else in this building.”

“And they’re right, you know?”

Charlotte locked the suitcase shut. The sound reverberated through the office. The editor flinched.

“Brandon,” she said. “Look. I know. It sounds like a weird story, but—”

“Yeah, yeah. Your grandmother’s letters. You got them from your mum. I get it, but you have to calm down.”

She walked past him, pausing to stop so that he was the only one to hear her.

“Don’t stop me Brandon. I’ll find out what they’ve been saying.”

Brandon stood in silence as Charlotte walked away, her workstation belongings in tow.

She remembered that moment. Now, she was gonna prove that it was just a fluke.

The wind howled, snapping Charlotte from her trance. She stared at the house.

The fog had quietly crept through, covering the nearby buildings. It sent an alluring presence toward Charlotte, the house masked in shadows, enticing her to reveal it. Unmask it.

She entered, the gate door left open. She stilled.

And slowly she moved her feet carrying herself through the leaf-covered, mossy ground. Her hand moved away from her beating heart as she reached for the door…

Creak.

She flinched. Her hand jerked back.

The door was already ajar.

Charlotte entered the house as slowly as she had entered. The creaking resonated through the dark hall. She heard her footsteps echoing through the hardwood. She entered the hall and paused at its center.

“H… Hello…?”

She had meant to say it silently, but the echo itself had modulated that into a louder sound.

“…”

Charlotte sighed deeply. It was a fluke after all. She turned around, making her way to the still open door—

“What?”

…said a voice, growling in tone. Charlotte yelped, the yelp echoing almost as loud as the voice did. She closed her eyes. It was all a dream, she thought.

“…that sound,” the voice said again. “That sounds… familiar.”

Charlotte opened her eyes. She slowly turned to her side. Inches away from her stood a man. Pale. She flinched violently.

“Kyah!”

The man smiled, walking—or limping—closer to Charlotte. She kept backing away. “I knew it… You came back… I knew it was y—”

“H-Hold it right there!”

Charlotte put up both of her hands. The man paused, his face slightly saddened by the gesture.

“…d-do you… not remember…?”

“How the fu… I mean, how would I remember you?!”

“But… but it’s me! Claude Douglas!”

Charlotte blinked. Her eyes widened at the name.

Claude Douglas.

The enigmatic, genius architect who disappeared over a hundred years ago.

The man who had been prolific yet disappeared without a trace…

The man… who was the subject of her grandmother’s letters.

“Claude…” Charlotte could not believe it. He was the one she had been looking for. The man who was described in the letters as “the lonely man by the window pane”.

He was right there. Waiting. Steady. He slowly moved to touch Charlotte’s hair.

“I’ve… I’ve missed you… my dearest Anne.”

The mesmerizing sensation of how Claude perceived her, this pale-skinned man with jet-black hair, was exactly as she had read in her grandmother’s letters.

Almost by fate, she vividly recalled what her gran had written:

Pale complexion, bright like moonlight…

He was delicate with me…

He brushed my hair like it was the most precious thing in the world…

He had an intimidating tone, but he was gentle with his words…

He seemed lonely, as if he missed someone….

The man who longed for something.

The man who yearned for someone.

The man…

…who shouldn’t be alive in the first place.

At that thought, she raised her hand, flicking away Claude’s hand. As she felt the touch, she remembered how cold it was, contrasting what she had recalled in the letters.

Lonely man by the window pane.

Claude Douglas, Charlotte thought, who are you?

The rejection of his hand caught Claude by surprise. He had been gentle, as he was shown, by the person he loved. By the person who had faith in him. By Anne.

“I’m sorry…”

Charlotte lodged herself away from his direction, to the side. She had been shocked by the entire situation that had unfolded. She normally would not be as flabbergasted as she was then. She’s a journalist after all.

And even comforting someone… she was not certain if she would allow Claude.

“I’m sorry, Claude,” she began.

Claude slowly backed away. His face spelled a signal of defeat, edging into despair. He thought he could see Anne once again but…

“No worries,” he replied. “You resemble her… my beloved, precious Anne.”

Charlotte’s mother, the only other heiress to the letters of her mother, had also been called that before her.

Auburn hair, deep amber eyes…

…she looked just like her grandmother. A spitting image of her younger self.

She would have been more flustered, had she not been a journalist. A truth seeker.

She chose to say nothing.

Silence filled the air. The fog seemed to have reached deep into both of them. They stared at each other, under the chandelier swaying back and forth… minutely.

“Forget what you saw here, young miss,” Claude finally remarked. “Leave while you still can.”

Inching toward the taste of defeat, Claude decided to walk away. His footsteps reminded Charlotte of the old house she moved away from. The hardwood had started to show its age, some mold or moss creeping from below.

Charlotte could have let go. She should have turned back.

And yet, she did not.

“Wait.”

Her tone. Claude knew the tinge of the sound of that voice. Anne had that too.

Claude turned around to face Charlotte.

Inside, the confidence Charlotte had took a deep dive. Perhaps it was the acid of the surroundings.

“You,” Charlotte started once more. “You knew my grandmother.”

Claude’s eyes lit up. But of course, she was Anne’s granddaughter.

“She… made a family?” Charlotte nodded.

“C-Can I see her…?” Charlotte shook her head.

The ephemeral nature of human life. Claude deflated once more. But Charlotte knew he had more to his story. She wanted answers. She wanted a narrative.

She was a proficient journalist after all.

“We can’t talk here,” she said, bringing up her notebook and pen. “Tell me everything you know.”

“…about Anne?”

Charlotte nodded.

“All of it. Start from the beginning.”

Claude stared at the woman. Charlotte was just as tenacious as her. She talked with the same cadence as her. She moved cautiously as she once did.

But she was not Anne. Anne was gone.

Charlotte wanted answers. She needed proof to write for her paper. She was a young woman on a mission, someone whose career had just taken off. She was pragmatic and focused, determined to find stories that would be mesmerizing yet factual.

The air of familiarity, from Claude Douglas…

…she didn’t know then.

“My study,” Claude gestured. “We can talk there.”

Charlotte noticed something as he walked away. The blinds cascading down covering the house with masks of shadows that kept whatever light from the outside was emanating… they were slowly swaying.

She followed him, her belongings still in tow.

The study was not particularly remarkable, especially for a career woman like Charlotte.

Except, it was exactly as her grandmother had described.

She did not pay too close attention to the dark sofa, velvet desk, or the hearth that burnt flame that was the only light from inside.

She was more focused on Claude.

He had called her grandmother his beloved and precious Anne.

Anne’s daughter Emily—Charlotte’s mother—had told Charlotte about the lonely man by the window pane. She had told her to tread carefully as she passed the letters down to her.

She never saw her mother again.

Sitting on the antiquated sofa, she looked intently at Claude, who was staring at a window. She had set down her notebook on herself, but she wasn’t writing.

She was staring at him…

…because the window was not staring back.

Charlotte had read it from the letters. She didn’t need to recall. She only remembered the warning her mother had said to her, before she disappeared without a trace.

He warms when he sees you.

Charlotte gulped.

Claude turned away from the window, now facing Charlotte’s way.

“What I am,” he started. “From the beginning.”

Charlotte immediately stared down at her notebook, ready to plot everything: the truth, the misery, the pain, the pleasure.

Claude explained in great detail. As Charlotte wrote, pieces of scenes appeared through her head, like polaroids shifting in scenes as if it was a film. An antiquated film. A classic.

She closed her notebook.

“…and then you will leave me. Just like Anne.”

Charlotte gasped. “What- what are you talking about…?”

“If you want to know…”

…come by tomorrow night.

Charlotte remembered those words vividly. She laid down on her bed somewhere in an inn nearby.

“Why does he want me to go?”

The question rang through her as she rose from her bed. The room she had checked in seemed normal: a wardrobe, a single-sized bed, a desk with a flickering lamp, and a toilet next to a bath. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary was the way she met Claude.

He did not seem… human.

She sat down on a chair, her notebook sprawled on her desk as she read her scribbles.

Claude Douglas. Genius architect. Helped create some of the most grand structures in Edinburgh.

Born in 1897…

“That’s impossible,” she said to herself. She was right.

He should be dead by now.