After getting his bath, Anastasius headed to the left wing of the manor, other than the descendant of Archanbeau, those who did not embrace the royal blood are considered trespassing the area. Somehow his body would take him to a certain room, he didn't question the memory his body has nor did he dislike being in that room.Being in that room always evokes bittersweet feelings of unknown nostalgia. His body yearns for it, but no memory was able to get to the light, except a certain figure, which oddly gives his mind and soul a source of  peacefulness. 

He took the golden doorknob in his hand, giving a slow, gentle momentum on the knob and the door, revealing a dark room that was slightly illuminated by the moonlight behind him. Closing the door at his back after the entrance, the young man approached a candelabrum on one of the side tables in the room. 

Once lit, he carried it with him, only casting the light to beam in a short distance, as he idled around the room, revealing one furniture piece at a time – well-crafted refined oak side tables, a dusty hearth, a cradle occupied by eight-legged arachnid and its silky, flimsy threads, and dark oak canopy bed that was decorated with royal red and champagne sheets. This room was where the prince spent his fond childhood memories.

Finally, Anastasius angled the tamed flame towards a linen fabric, hanging against the vacant cherry-coloured wall, concealing an object behind it. He removed the fabric and revealed an art; a five-feet-tall rectangular canvas, coated in substantive media with a golden frame. A side face angle, half-body subject portrayed in a sleek, ivory painting, with exquisite and distinct, albinic white long curls, impartial with its pair of brilliant, enchanting deep blue orbs. Dressed in pearl white chiffon dress with a high neckline which displayed the innocent modesty of the fair subject. A hint of warm, delicate rosy shades spread across the pale subject’s façade, bearing a dignified-subtle smile. A magnificent artwork suited with this divine subject, like a Cinnamon Cindy camellia displaying its white petals, blushed in soft pink shades as the flower blooms warmly under a light, brief shower of pure, feathery snowflakes. 

A gentle brush from his thumb against the portrait, feeling the almost smooth-grainless texture. A sigh skipped his lips-- again, another unknown feeling of bittersweetness. Setting the candelabrum aside, partial of his body leaned against the art, as if he was embrace the object like his cold body depends on the paint's ghostly warmth. A plentiful warmth that he could not get anywhere else.

“Mother…” an utterly leaden tone, full of yearning escaped Anastasius’ lips.