All windows were open, and the curtains were rippling in the fresh wind, easing the silence of the library. A faint musty smell lingered in the air as Liam and Anton stepped inside. It was spacious, with shelves lining every wall, the books neatly arranged by genre and subject. 

The central space looked more like a drawing room, with a chandelier above it. A classic sofa and a pair of armchairs sat around a coffee table carved with roses and vines, each seat layered with soft cushions. It felt as though they had stepped into an eighteenth-century palace.

Whoa, their silent reaction. Their eyes wandered over the vintage furniture and antiques in every corner of the study.

Liam strolled toward one of the shelves, gliding his fingers along the spines as if deciding which book to read first. Meanwhile, Anton stepped forward and glanced up at the ceiling, where angels were painted around the chandelier. He watched in quiet fascination.

When Liam noticed him, a small grin tugged at his lips. It was likely Anton’s first time in a library. He found himself more at ease around Anton now, compared to the coldness he had shown before. Despite his detached nature, one truth remained: Anton never left his side. And so, he found himself wishing Anton would stay, no matter what. Even knowing it was selfish, he wanted to keep him to himself. He grinned.

When his eyes drifted back to the shelves, he noticed an old book that looked out of place. He pulled it out and turned the pages. It was the Hawthorne family tree, tracing the generations one after another with their timeless hand-sketch photo. The ink on the pages had faded over time, as though it had been hidden away before revealing itself to anyone. How fortunate, Liam thought.

His lips curled into a grin when he saw a familiar face on page thirteen. The room felt airy and soothing, the open windows letting in a gentle breeze. Liam strolled closer to the sofa.

“Doesn’t he look like you, Anton?” he said, glancing back at him. Sunlight rested across the shelves, and the silence settled deep, broken only by the faint rustle of pages. 

Anton met his gaze. “What do you mean?” he asked softly. He approached Liam. 

Outside, the day looked blissful. The distant hum of a tractor drifted faintly through the air.

“Here, take a look,” Liam said as he sat on the sofa. Anton joined him, moving closer to his right side, leaning in with quiet innocence. 

Anton's eyes went wide. The man in the photo looked exactly like him. Even though the hair lay smooth, it was brushed back in the fashion of the time. His eyes cast down and read its name. 

Matthias Alistair Hawthorne, III

Born on March 20, 1790, died at 20 years of age. 

“He died at such a young age,” Anton mumbled. Liam also read it and said, “You’re right. But it didn’t say the reason why he died, though. If you take a look at his ancestors,” he wondered, flipping other pages for Anton to see. “All of them had the date, time, and cause of death,” they pondered. It wasn’t that they felt spooked about it. It felt more like the Hawthornes’ family had hidden such secrets that they didn’t want to reveal to whoever would find their ancestry book. 

For a second, Liam thought that his great-aunt Rosie might know the mansion’s secrecy. But he doubted it. Anton noticed his sudden silence. 

“What’s the matter, Liam? Do you perhaps want to ask your great-aunt about the Hawthornes ' ancestry? Anton asked, tilting his head quietly. The wind suddenly swept through, carrying a chill that felt like a warning. 

Anton and Liam exchanged glances, both swallowing nervously. The atmosphere in the library felt uncanny, unsettling in a way they could not quite believe. It was as though someone was watching them—from the corner where even the sunlight failed to reach.

“Do you think what I’m thinking, Anton?” Liam said, not letting fear take hold of him.

Anton dipped his head. “I think we should come back and read your books another time, Liam,” he said, a thin layer of sweat forming in the corners of his temples. He looked calm, yet his heart was pounding restlessly.

Liam closed the book as he stood. Anton did the same. He again looked up at the angels on the ceiling as if he had seen them before. Quietly and distant. At least that eerie feeling he had felt earlier slowly faded away. 

When Liam put the book back where it belonged, a piece of a photo fell on the polished floor. Huh? His left brow raised, for there was none tucked between the pages when he was reading them. He felt strange. His right hand reached for it. He didn’t notice the curving penmanship written on the back as he flipped the photo to see whose it was. 

It was a sepia-toned photographed of farmers, their tools resting on their shoulders. They did not look like people from Suffolk. Anton noticed how long Liam had been standing by the shelf before calling his name. 

Only then did Liam’s eyes widen in disbelief. The young man in plain work clothes looked exactly like him. He stood beside a nobleman, a cigar between his fingers, his gaze piercing straight through Liam’s. His heart thumped. 

What the hell, his mind kept returning to the strange man in the photo. His heart raced as he flipped the photo over and read the back. 

Trabajador de Don Matías de la Vega y Montemayor, Balay Negrosa, 1890. 

A strange wind brushed past his back, as though someone had been standing behind him, before fading without a trace. His eyes dilated in shock. He looked back. No one was behind him except Anton, who looked at him in bewilderment. 

“What’s wrong, Liam?” Anton said, tilting his head slightly to the right, as he was about to approach him—