You wake up in darkness.

You are not even a speck of dust. When you regain your consciousness, you realize that you are just a formless, meaningless existence that has been drifting for what seems like eternity in an empty void of silence.

You see nothing. You feel nothing. You are nothing.

But then—a voice.

It calls out to you from the depths of the abyss. Listening to it requires you to pull together every particle of your broken soul.

You strain enough to hear two faint words.

"*Come back.*"

You make a decision.

No matter how long it takes—

No matter the trials that stand in your way—

You must drag your broken and battered soul and return to his side.

**

You awaken to the soft patter of rain and the comforting crackle of firelight. The faint scent of damp earth weaves through the room, mingling with woodsmoke—a breath of the manor itself, as though awakened from a long, deep slumber.

You have scarcely begun to piece together your surroundings when a voice, rich and smooth, breaks the stillness.

"Goodness, I thought you'd never wake up."

The speaker kneels beside you, his face softened by the fire's orange glow, shadows dancing over features that hold a boyish charm—yet with an intensity that stirs both curiosity and unease. His eyes, deep and unfathomable twin amethysts, glimmer as they hold your gaze, his lips curving into a faint, inscrutable smile.

"Good morning. How are you faring? Not quite here yet, I see. I imagine it feels as though you’ve been asleep for quite some time... but no matter. Today is a new beginning for you."

With an effortless grace, he rises, as though he has done this many times before. His voice carries a tone of barely concealed satisfaction.

"I must confess, I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time."

You try to reply, to grasp at some distant memory or thought, but everything around you feels veiled in a dream-like fog. The man's brow knits ever so slightly, his gaze sharpening as he observes your confusion.

"Do you not remember me?" he whispers, his words delicate as cobwebs. "And... you do not remember yourself?"

His face turns ashen with despair. The manor also seems to hold its breath, and in that pause, a terrible, unspoken grief creeps through the air.

"That is... quite troublesome." He regains his composure with a sigh and a practiced smile. "But don’t worry. The manor is yours, as it has always been. And I am René, its faithful servant. In time, all will be revealed to you. Perhaps a tour of the manor will jog your memory."

Amid the stillness of the room, René speaks with an eerie conviction, his words laden with an unsettling certainty, as though the manor itself lent him its voice. The walls seem alive, throbbing with secrets unspoken, each crack and shadow a conduit for memories that pulsed in the ether.

With a steady hand, René reaches for the silver candleholder upon the mantle. The slender flame flares, casting spectral silhouettes that stretch like dark, creeping tendrils across the faded walls.

As your eyes trace the cut of René's handsome profile in the orange glow of candlelight, the presence of something sinister brushes against the edges of your consciousness.

Oh, poor, poor soul! Revelations await, yet can you bear the sorrow’s toll? Dig up your past, if you dare — a futile game, a tragic snare!

If René heard the voice, he doesn't show it. He turns to you, his smile gentle yet unwavering—a subtle invitation as he extends his free hand.

"Let us be off, then," he murmured, his voice a reverent sigh against the silence. "The hour is late, and there is much to see. But whatever happens..."

René's gaze finds yours with an intensity that sends a shiver spiraling through you.

"Please, do not let go of my hand."