All Chapters of Until The Last Day: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

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 o

The white light consumed everything around her. Camela gasped, clutching her wrists tightly. There were no chains, no flames, and no collapsing house. Just silence. Then she felt it—her own breath, real and ragged. She staggered forward, her shoes scraping against the floor beneath her. This wasn’t an endless black stone or a cursed corridor or void. It was wood. She glanced down at the floor—old wood, polished yet scratched from many years of use. The air was filled with the smell of dust and a hint of candle wax, signs of people who had been there before.Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she pressed her hand against the wall. It was painted, cracked, cold—but solid. “Reality…” her voice trembled. “I’m…back.” From the corner of the room, a chair creaked. Camela turned quickly. And there he was—Vincent. Not a shadow, not flame, not the ghost. But real.His golden eyes were dimmed, his chest bore scars, and his clothes were torn. He leaned forward with his hands gripping his kne

The streetlamp hummed faintly, casting a weak light into the darkness. Camela couldn’t move. The scar on her chest burned white-hot, spreading like fire across her skin. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The man in the red gloves stepped closer, each footfall slow and deliberate, almost cruel. His shadow stretched across the pavement, curling around her feet like chains. “Camela,” he whispered again. Though his voice was not loud, it filled every corner of the night. “Say it. Say my name.” She parted her lips, letting out a silent breath. Her knees bent, threatening to give way beneath her. “You’re not real,” she managed to say hoarsely. The man tilted his head and smiled faintly. “Reality is whatever you choose to obey. And right now…you obey me.” Her fingernails dug into her palms, drawing blood. She forced her feet backward as she struggled to take a shaky step back from him. The pavement seemed to bend beneath her. “Where is Vincent?” she gasped. “What have you d

The emergency lights buzzed overhead, casting a flickering pale red glow over the ruined police station. Shadows moved across the broken walls. Camela stood in the middle of the room barefoot, her dress torn and her skin streaked with blood. Her hands trembled, with red smudges covering her palms.Behind her lingered a whisper—Vincent’s whisper. “You know you need me.” Her breath caught as she spun around. No one stood there—just the overturned desks, broken windows, and papers drifting like feathers. “Vincent?” she called out, her voice trembling.But silence was her only reply.The shadows appeared too tall and too lively. She stumbled back against a nearby desk, digging her nails into the wood as she tried to steady her breath. “This is real,” she whispered to herself. “This is real. I’m back. I’m not in the void anymore. I’m here.” The silence felt heavy as if the building was holding its breath. Then, suddenly, her scar burned white-hot across her chest. She gasped and clut