Twilight felt different that night.

The sky, painted in a deep, almost ethereal violet, seemed to hold its breath as the first stars dared to shine between clouds that drifted like smoke. The breeze carried a damp scent—a mix of soil, firewood, and dried roses.
It was the third time I’d visited the castle, and yet every time I crossed its threshold, I felt as though I were stepping into another world.

Velmira didn’t greet me at the entrance this time. The doors were open, but the inside was dim. Only a couple of candelabras lit the main corridor, revealing tiny motes of dust floating like fireflies.

“Velmira?” I called out cautiously.

The echo of my voice vanished into the stone walls. I walked slowly, following the distant sound of wind sneaking through the cracked stained-glass windows. I stopped at the portrait gallery. Every painting watched me with unmoving eyes—but there was one that was new, or at least newly cleaned.

A woman and a man.
She with her hair tied up and a gentle smile.
He with a proud expression, a hand resting on the woman’s shoulder.
Between them, a small child.

The frame held an almost unreadable inscription: “Virell Family. Year 1632.”

It wasn’t hard to understand. The woman was Velmira. Or rather, what remained of her human life.

“It was a gray day,” said a voice behind me.

I turned around. Velmira was there, barefoot, dressed in a burgundy tunic. Her hair fell loose and shimmered like a silver river under the faint light.

“The portrait was painted right before everything ended,” she continued. “My father insisted the whole family should be seen. ‘For posterity,’ he said.”

I stayed silent, unwilling to interrupt. Velmira approached the painting and traced the face of her former self… someone she had no hope of ever becoming again.

“He never imagined that posterity would become my curse.”

“What happened?” I asked softly.

She exhaled heavily. It was an ancient sound, as if it had traveled through centuries.

“You already know I was turned against my will. But what you don’t know is that, before that, I believed I had found someone I could trust.”

She stepped away from the painting and walked slowly toward the window. The moon was beginning to rise behind the clouds, round, large, and pale.

“He was human,” she said. “A scholar. He claimed to study the mysteries of blood, the hidden properties of the body. I met him at a fair when my father sent me to oversee the wine sales. He was charming, well-mannered… different. For months he visited me at dusk, always with a book or a new story to tell. I… trusted him.”

Her hands trembled slightly, though her voice remained serene.

“Until one night, he asked me to accompany him to the outskirts of the village—an invitation I found rather… unusual, to say the least. He said he had discovered something that would change medicine forever.
I went… blinded… hopeful…
And the last thing I remember was the cold.
The silence.
And his voice whispering in my ear: ‘Your blood will be my immortality.’”

A knot formed in my chest.

“He turned you?”

“No. He sold me. To the creature who did.”

She fell silent for a few seconds, staring at the moon with empty eyes.

“The humans in my village found out what happened. Instead of helping me… they hunted me. They feared me. They claimed I carried the curse within me. They killed my family for ‘raising a demon.’”
Velmira gave a joyless smile.
“And that’s when I understood there was nothing human left in me. Not in what remained. Not even my name.”

I froze. It wasn’t just a tragic story—it was an open wound, still beating after centuries.

“That’s why you hate humans,” I murmured.

Velmira turned her face toward me. Her red eyes gleamed with something I hadn’t seen before: not anger, but exhaustion.

“I don’t hate them,” she said. “I understand them far too well.”

We remained quiet for a moment, listening only to the distant crackle of the fire.

“Sometimes I think,” she added in a lower tone, “that what I fear most isn’t what they did to me, but what I was still capable of feeling for them. Betrayal hurts, but nostalgia is worse.”

Her words pierced through me like an arrow. Maybe because, in some way, I understood them more than I wanted to admit.

“I know what it’s like to be alone too,” I whispered.

She turned slowly, as if she didn’t expect an answer.

“You?” she asked. “No offense… but you don’t seem like someone who carries shadows.”

I let out a bitter laugh and shrugged.

“You have no idea.”

I stepped closer to the window beside her. The moon reflected our silhouettes on the glass: a centuries-old vampire and an insignificant human. But in the reflection, our outlines blurred.

“My mother died when I was little,” I began. “My father… never recovered. He worked all day and slept as much as he could to avoid thinking. I grew up in that silence. The townspeople were kind, but also distant.
Everyone knew everyone.
Everyone helped everyone… except me.
They said my presence brought bad luck, like I was some sort of black cat. That my mother left because she couldn’t bear having me.”

Velmira frowned.

“… Hypocrisy. Mortals find it far too easy to blame the one who survives.”

I nodded.

“I learned not to depend on anyone. But sometimes… it weighs on me. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It does.” Her voice was a whisper. “Far too much.”

We stared at the moon.
Me with my village memories,
her with centuries of solitude.
Two different lives bound by the same emptiness.

“Do you ever miss feeling warmth?” I asked suddenly.

“Sometimes. But more than warmth, I miss the meaning it used to have. When you’re human, fire represents life. When you’re like me, it only reminds you of what you lost.”

“And you never tried to get it back?”

“Human warmth is fleeting, Aira. No matter how much you want it, how much you long for it or adore it… it always cools.”
Her expression softened.
“Although… there are moments when I almost forget.”

“Moments like now?” I asked without thinking.

Velmira looked at me for a long moment.
She didn’t respond.
But she didn’t need to.

Silence returned, thick but different.
Not uncomfortable.
Sincere.

I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. She remained standing, the moon resting on her shoulders. Her figure looked made of shadow and light at once.

“Sometimes I wonder,” I said, staring at the ceiling, “if what makes us human is the ability to feel pain… or to keep searching for meaning after feeling it.”

“Both,” Velmira replied softly. “But also forgetting. Humans are the only ones who can forget and still call it hope.”

I smiled.

“That sounds almost poetic coming from you.”

“Don’t underestimate me, human.” Her lips curved faintly. “I was a poet once.”

“Really?” I raised a brow, genuinely curious.

“In another life. When I still wrote about dawns that didn’t hurt.”

“I’d like to read something of yours,” I said with a smile.

“Nothing survived. Time and blood aren’t good keepers.”

“Then write something new for me.”

“For what purpose?”

“Because…” I shrugged. “Maybe writing is a way of not dying entirely.”

She looked at me, and for an instant, I thought I saw tenderness… maybe affection. Or maybe it was just firelight reflected in her hollow eyes.

Velmira approached and sat in front of me, on the floor.
Very close.
Close enough for me to feel the cold emanating from her skin.

“Aira,” she said my name with a softness I had never heard from her, “why do you keep coming back?”

“Because I promised myself I would,” I replied.

“Don’t lie to yourself.” Her eyes narrowed, studying me.
“Humans don’t return just for promises. Not even the most sincere ones written in fire and blood.”

I had no answer. I lowered my gaze, fidgeting with my sleeve.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe because here I feel… less empty.”

She didn’t reply. But her breathing—if one could call it that—became slower.

“And you?” I dared to ask. “Why do you keep letting me in?”

“Because you speak to me,” she answered immediately.

I looked up. Simple words, but they sounded like a confession.

“No one else did?”

“No… not after the betrayal. I learned silence was more loyal. But you… you’re loud. Restless. Curious. And you don’t seem afraid of me, though you should be.”

“Maybe because I see beyond the monster.”

“And what do you see?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Someone who still feels. Even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”

Velmira smiled faintly. A smile that seemed to hurt her.

“You’re wrong, Aira. I don’t feel. I only remember what feeling was like.”

“Then maybe remembering is another form of feeling.”

Her gaze softened—not much, but enough for me to notice. She didn’t reply. Instead, she lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was cold as snow, but not unpleasant.

“You have a reckless, foolish, bothersome heart,” she murmured.

“And you have a silence that’s terrifying.”

We both laughed, though her laugh was brief, as if she struggled to recall how to.

The fire was dying slowly. The night deepened, and the castle seemed to fall asleep with us. There was a stillness that didn’t belong to the outside world—a bubble suspended between two weary souls.

“Velmira…” I said after a long while, “do you think emptiness ever fills?”

“No.” Her voice was barely a sigh lost in the wind. “But sometimes, it stops hurting.”

I looked at her. Her eyes were fixed on the smallest flame in the fireplace. There was sadness in them, yes, but also a spark I hadn’t seen before.

Maybe it was hope.
Or perhaps just the reflection of mine.

We stayed like that until the moon hid once more behind the clouds.
Without speaking.
Without moving.
Just two shadows searching for warmth in the vastness of a castle that no longer belonged to anyone.

And in that shared silence, I understood that our emptiness wasn’t so different.
Hers was eternal, almost withered.
Mine, recent and raw.
But in the end, they hurt the same.

And for the first time since I met her, her presence didn’t feel cold, eerie, or threatening.

Just… human.