Chapter 217: Learning to Live Again

The candle lit up with a gentle crackle. Camela’s hands trembled as she held the match, the tiny flame shaking with her breath. The shadows in the corners of her room seemed to pull back from the light.

She whispered to herself, almost in disbelief, “It’s just me…only me.”

The match burned out, and she let it fall into the glass bowl beside her, where the thin smoke rose like a ghostly sigh.

The room felt small, warm, and human—nothing like the mansion or the void. The wallpaper was yellow and a bit faded near the window. Her books were stacked unevenly on the desk. Next to the lamp, there was a photo of her and Mrs. Doyle, the old woman she now lived with.

This was her life now: quiet, simple, and real. But the memory of the last thing she saw—the twin smiles, one in the window and one behind her, still crawled down her spine.

Morning came gray and gently. Rain pattered softly on the roof, the kind of rain that created a sleepy sound in the world outside.

Camela stood in front of the mirror, tying her hair up. The scar on her collarbone had faded to a light line, almost invisible now.

Mrs. Doyle called from the kitchen, “Camela! Breakfast’s getting cold, dear!”

She smiled softly and replied, “Coming!”

Downstairs, the air was filled with the aroma of toast and eggs. Mrs. Doyle sat at the table, reading the newspaper through her round glasses. She was kind, chatty, and didn’t ask too many questions about Camela’s past—which was just what Camela needed.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Mrs. Doyle asked as she looked up.

Camela paused for a moment before nodding in response, “A little. Just some noise outside.”

“The city never sleeps,” Mrs. Doyle laughed. “You’ll get used to it. You just have to find something to keep your mind busy.”

Camela stirred her tea and said, “I’m thinking about getting a job.”

The old woman’s eyes lit up. “Now that’s the spirit! You’re too young to be sitting around talking to ghosts.”

Camela froze at the mention of ghosts but she forced a smile and said, “Yeah…you’re right.”

That afternoon, she walked through town under a gray umbrella. The streets were wet but buzzing with life—people rushing by, the scent of coffee wafting from a nearby café, and students chatting away. It all felt so alive that it almost hurt.

She passed by a bookstore with its window display full of secondhand novels. Something inside her stirred.

The bell jingled as she stepped in.

A tall man behind the counter greeted her with a polite smile. “Looking for anything specific?”

She shook her head and answered back, “Just browsing.”

The store smelled of paper, dust, and old stories. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books one by one. She enjoyed this feeling—soft and real, nothing like that glowing cursed journal that had once haunted her.

After a few minutes, she halted in front of a book of poetry. On the front cover, there was a note written neatly: “For whoever finds this, may you remember that pain doesn’t mean you stopped living.”

Her throat tightened as she repeated the words to herself. “Pain doesn’t mean you stopped living…”

The man behind the counter spoke again. “That one’s special, isn’t it?”

She nodded slowly, saying, “Yes. It feels…alive.”

He smiled and said, “Then maybe you should take it with you.”

Days turned into weeks.

Camela began to visit the bookstore more often. The man’s name was Aaron—he was soft spoken, patient, never asking too many questions. He told her about his dream of turning the shop into a cozy café for writers.

One evening, while they were rearranging a shelf together, Camela laughed for the first time in months. The sound of it surprised her—the lightness of it felt good.

Aaron looked up from his stack of books. “There it is,” he said with warmth.

“What is there?” she asked, smiling shyly.

“The sound of someone learning to live again,” he replied.

Her hands froze on the shelf as she looked down, her smile fading a little.

He noticed the silence and added softly, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay,” she said after a moment. “I’m still…figuring out how to do that.”

He nodded kindly. “Then start small. One smile at a time.”

That night, as she walked back home, she felt the wind on her face. The city lights sparkled in the puddles, and for once they didn’t remind her of fire or blood—they reminded her of life.

She whispered to herself, “One smile at a time.”

By winter, she had settled into a routine—enjoying morning tea with Mrs. Doyle, spending afternoons at the bookstore, and reading or writing by candlelight in the evenings.

One night, while cleaning up her drawer, she stumbled upon a stack of old envelopes. They were blank—no stamps or addresses on them.

Her heart raced. She couldn’t recall packing them away. Sitting at her desk, she grabbed a pen and started to write without thinking:

Dear Vincent,

I don’t know where you are or if you even still exist. But I’m beginning to breathe again and discovering who I am when I’m not fighting shadows.

Her hand trembled but she continued writing.

Sometimes I still hear you in the rain. Sometimes I hate that I miss you. But maybe that’s part of living again—feeling everything, even the pain.

“Yours once, but not anymore.”

She stared at her words for a moment before folding the paper neatly and slipping it into one of the envelopes with no stamp and no address.

She mumbled, “Just letters without stamps…sent to ghosts that can’t read.”

Over the next few days, she kept writing. Every letter began with “Dear Vincent,” and ended with “Yours once, but not anymore.”

It became her ritual—a way of letting go without losing herself completely.

It started small—a whisper in the hallway when she was alone, a faint smell of smoke even though there was no fire, and the soft sound of claws scratching lightly under the window at night.

Camela tried to brush it off. She convinced herself it was just her memory, just fear pretending to be something real.

But on the third night, she woke up to see that one of her letters had opened on the desk. Her handwriting stopped halfway in the middle of a word.

A new line had been added beneath it—written in a dark red ink that she didn’t own: “I read every word.”

Her heart pounded wildly. She stumbled back and knocked over the candle, plunging the room into darkness.

“No,” she whispered. “You’re gone. You’re not real.”

From the window, she heard a faint tap—once, then twice. She turned to look quickly.

The rain outside fell harder, beating against the glass. Through the watery blur of the window, she saw a figure standing under the streetlamp again.

The figure looked tall, stood motionless, and watched her.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Aaron?” she whispered, even though she already knew it wasn’t him.

The shadow tilted its head slightly. The light above flickered—and then went out completely.

Camela’s hands shook uncontrollably as she backed away, murmuring to herself, “It’s not him…it’s not him…it’s not…”

Something creaked behind her suddenly. She turned sharply.

The stack of letters lay open all over the floor, and their ink shimmered faintly in the candlelight that had somehow relit itself back on.

Each page had a new line beneath her words—all written in that same red ink:

“I never stopped reading.”

“I never stopped listening.”

“You can’t unlove me.”

Camela covered her mouth with trembling hands as tears filled her eyes, sobbing, “Please…stop. I’m not yours anymore.”

The candle flame surged higher, burning blue.

A soft, broken whisper floated to her through the window—one she knew well: “Camela.”

She froze in place. Her heart pounded so fast it felt painful.

“No…” she breathed sharply. “You’re dead. You’re gone. You promised you’d let me live.”

The whispering voice came again, closer now and inside the room. “Learning to live again doesn’t mean forgetting me.”

She slowly turned toward the sound, trembling. In the reflection of the window, she saw herself standing alone.

And behind that reflection—two golden eyes opened wide.

Then she heard his voice, which sounded low and almost gentle:

“Tell me, my bride…did you really think I would let you live without me?”

Her phone she had placed on the desk began to ring. She jolted and slowly reached for it.