Chapter 3 : Echoes of another life .
The scent of herbs floated faintly in the air—clove, sage, something bitter. Freya stirred beneath heavy blankets, eyelids fluttering like moth wings in the dark. Her head throbbed, wrapped in dull pain, but at least it no longer felt like splitting apart.
Voices murmured nearby—soft, restrained, but tinged with urgency.
"She's waking up," said someone. A woman.
Freya opened her eyes.
The room was dim, lit by a single candle on the far wall. A man in a deep olive coat leaned over her, pressing the back of his hand gently to her forehead. His fingers were cold, but careful.
"Lady Freya," he said with a clinical sort of calm. "Can you hear me?"
She blinked slowly, trying to sit up. Her limbs resisted, heavy and sluggish.
"Yes…" Her voice was a dry whisper.
"Don't push yourself," he said, offering a sip of water from a silver cup. "Just rest for now."
She drank. The cool water soothed her throat, but questions crowded her mind again. Still, she was too tired to voice them.
Behind the doctor, the Duke stood with arms crossed. He looked unreadable—cold, distant, yet not entirely unmoved.
"Well?" he asked.
The doctor straightened, glancing between the Duke and Freya before speaking.
"She's suffering from retrograde amnesia," he said evenly. "She doesn't remember who she is, who any of you are. It may be temporary or permanent—it's hard to say. But based on her symptoms and behavior, I'd wager it was caused by some sort of emotional or psychological shock."
Silence followed.
The Duke's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "So she wasn't lying."
"No, Your Grace," the doctor replied. "The condition is genuine."
From the shadows, Mina bit her lip.
Freya closed her eyes again, breathing in slowly. It felt like the world around her wasn't hers—not yet. She didn't belong here, but she also didn't belong anywhere else anymore.
She was a ghost… in a girl's body… trapped between two lives.
And no one here seemed ready to guide her back.
That night, sleep did not come gently.
Freya lay still, her breath quiet beneath the covers, but her soul was stirring—fluttering like pages in a storm. The world around her dimmed into velvet darkness, and a cold breeze swept through her mind.
Suddenly, she was standing on a quiet street. No snow, no ancient castle—just streetlamps buzzing faintly overhead and concrete slick with rain. The neon signs flickered with color in the distance, dancing like fireflies in the mist.
Her feet were bare.
She knew this place.
Seoul.
She turned her head, and there it was—a glass-fronted café, her favorite one. The same little corner table, the yellow tulip painted on the window, the smell of cinnamon pastries bleeding through the air.
She started walking.
The sound of her steps echoed louder than they should have. She passed people on the street, but no one looked at her. No one noticed. They were blurred—faceless, fast-moving shadows.
Then came the alley.
Narrow. Dim. Too quiet.
She heard it again—the footsteps behind her, light but deliberate. Her breathing quickened. She turned around.
No one.
But her gut twisted with fear.
Her legs moved on their own, faster and faster, heartbeat thundering in her ears like war drums. She could hear her own gasp. Then—arms. Rough. Grabbing.
She screamed, but no sound came out.
Cold steel slid across her skin.
Darkness.
And just before the dream shattered—
A voice.
Soft. Whispered. Echoing:
"Freya... Freya... wake up..."
Her eyes snapped open.
The fire had gone out. The room was cast in twilight and silence. She was in the Duke's manor again. Not Seoul. Not her world. The heaviness in her chest returned like a stone tied to her ribs.
She wasn't dreaming anymore.
But she didn't feel awake either.
And as tears slipped silently down her cheeks, Freya realized something chilling:
That nightmare wasn't just a dream.
It was a memory.
A faint scent of herbs and something bitter hung in the air.
Freya blinked. The ceiling above her swam like clouds in water. Her head pulsed, dull and throbbing. As she shifted slightly, the warm weight of a blanket brushed against her chest.
She wasn't alone.
"She's awake," came a voice, calm and measured.
A pair of kind eyes met hers, framed by silver spectacles. A man in a long coat stood beside her bed, holding a leather-bound notebook. His presence was quiet but solid.
The doctor.
"I'm glad to see your eyes open, Lady Freya," he said, offering a small nod. "You gave everyone quite a scare."
She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry. Her fingers curled weakly around the blanket.
"Water…" she whispered.
Before the doctor could move, someone beat him to it.
A hand—cool, calloused—reached forward, holding out a cup.
Aaron.
He didn't say a word as she drank, his eyes unreadable. He looked… annoyed, maybe. Or just tired. But he hadn't left. That mattered. Even if his stare was sharp enough to cut glass.
She finished and lowered the cup, voice hoarse. "What… happened?"
"You fainted," the doctor said gently, stepping closer. "From what Mina told me and what I've observed, I believe your memory loss is genuine. Likely induced by a significant shock to the system. Emotional or physical—we'll need time to understand more."
Freya stared at him. "So… I really… forgot everything?"
The doctor gave a sympathetic smile. "It seems so, my lady. But don't worry. Memories are like seeds buried beneath snow. With warmth and patience, they may bloom again."
Aaron scoffed quietly beside her.
Freya turned toward him. "Why are you here?"
His jaw tightened. "Because Father told me to stay. And…" he hesitated, looking away, "…because you looked like you were dying."
Her breath caught.
That wasn't an apology.
But it wasn't nothing either.
She looked down at her hands. Small. Pale. The hands of someone she didn't know.
"I don't understand anything…" she whispered.
Aaron didn't speak. The silence between them stretched—thick, tense, unsure.
Then the doctor gently closed his notebook. "I'll prepare a prescription to help ease the headaches. And I suggest not overwhelming her. Let her rest and recover slowly."
He gave a bow to them both, then quietly left the room, leaving Freya and Aaron wrapped in uneasy quiet.
She looked up at her brother again, voice barely a breath.
"Was I always this weak?"
Aaron's expression flickered. Just once. Then he stood. "No. You were annoying. And loud. And dramatic."
A pause.
"But not weak."
Then he turned, walking toward the door.
Freya watched him go, her heart stirring with something between confusion and longing.
She didn't know who she was.
But maybe she could find out.
And maybe—not today, not tomorrow—but someday, she'd make them all look at her with something other than indifference.
Even him.
The night fell heavy, curling around the manor like a velvet cloak. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, brushing frost against the glass panes like ghostly fingertips searching for someone they once loved.
Inside her room, Freya tossed in her sleep.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched. Her mind pulled her deep into the hollow between two lives.
The dream began quietly.
She stood in a white hallway—sterile, humming with light. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. Everything smelled faintly of bleach and sorrow. She turned slowly, her heart beating louder than her steps.
There they were.
A man with tired eyes and gray-streaked hair. A woman with a stern mouth softened by sadness. A younger boy, no more than ten, holding a phone in one hand and a red scarf in the other.
They looked at her.
But they didn't speak.
Freya's breath quickened. "Who… who are you?"
The man's lips moved, but she couldn't hear him. The woman was crying silently. The boy turned away.
"No—wait!" she shouted, running forward.
The lights flickered. The hallway darkened. Their faces blurred, melting into something unfamiliar, something wrong.
"Don't go!"
Their figures dissolved into mist, and suddenly she was falling—fast, helpless—into a well of icy water, her own scream echoing all around her.
"STOP! Don't leave me again!"
"Freya—!"
Her eyes flew open.
She was drenched in sweat, trembling, her fingers knotted in the bedsheets. Her breaths came fast and shallow.
And then she felt it—
A presence. Warm. Real.
She turned her head—and saw him.
The Duke.
Standing beside her bed, his hand outstretched, eyes slightly wide with something she couldn't name.
"Y-You…" her voice cracked.
She didn't think. Didn't weigh the rules of this cold, brittle household.
She just moved.
She launched herself forward and threw her arms around him. Her small hands clung to the front of his coat like a lifeline in a sea of despair.
The Duke stiffened.
Not a single muscle moved. Not a word left his lips. But he didn't push her away.
And that silence—the lack of rejection—meant more than any comfort she'd ever received since waking in this world.
"I-I was so scared," she whispered against his chest, voice trembling. "They looked at me like I was a stranger… like they knew me… but I didn't know them…"
Her voice broke.
The Duke's hand hovered above her back. Still hesitating.
Still unsure.
But he looked down at this child—his daughter—holding onto him like he was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
And for the first time in seven years, something inside him cracked just a little.
He let his hand fall gently onto her hair.
"Rest, Freya," he said, voice low, almost inaudible. "It was just a dream."