I think I’m losing my mind.

It has been exactly one year since my parents died. Little by little, the people around me drifted away, always using my mental state as an excuse. During that time, I tried to convince myself that I was still sane, but now… even I’m no longer sure. Especially after what’s happened recently.

For the past year, I’ve been living alone in this enormous house—a decaying manor on the outskirts of the city. It’s close to the fine arts university I attend, which should have been convenient, yet sometimes it only makes me feel more isolated from the outside world, strengthening my fear that I’m slowly losing my grip on reality.

Normally, a painter should find inspiration in a place like this.

But my personality, like everything else in my life, has always been strange. I craved solitude, yet hated being alone.

When I was little, my mother used to tell me that I drew beautifully for my age. She was the one who encouraged me most to pursue painting. Since she was a botanist, the garden was always overflowing with flowers. She even had her own small greenhouse. Back then, I’d sit with a sketchbook in my lap and try to draw her plants in my childish way.

After she died, I never stepped foot inside that greenhouse again.

The once colorful garden was now nothing more than dry, lifeless soil.

If I painted the dreams I’ve been having lately, even the delivery guy would stop coming to my door.

Beatrice…

A pitiful duke’s daughter who suffered abuse in my nightmares. Recently, she had begun slipping into every moment of my sleep. Every time I saw her, she was crying desperately, trying to defend herself. In every dream, she was accused of countless things she hadn’t done, yet no one ever questioned the accusations. She was always declared guilty without hesitation.

And all I could do was watch passively as she was tormented.

When the doorbell rang, I was sitting at my desk, trying to finish a portrait assignment using my reflection as a reference. I quickly set my paintbrush down and jumped to my feet. While absentmindedly wondering how I could capture the exact shade of my red hair with the paints I had, I headed downstairs.

“Who would come here on a Sunday?” I muttered to myself as I opened the door.

“What…?!”

No one was there.

Instead, resting on the doormat was a yellowish transparent tube and a small note.

Slowly, I crouched at the doorway. After checking both directions, I quickly grabbed the objects and rushed inside. The moment I shut the door, I leaned against it and looked down at the strange items in my hands.

The tube had no label. Its opening was sealed with a cork stopper. Through the aged glass, I could make out a single dark seed inside. Neither its shape nor the seed itself resembled any of the plants my mother used to buy.

Setting the tube aside, I unfolded the note.

> To Clara Morgan,

This is the completed version of the project I began years ago: the Solenne Flower.

To make up for the mistakes of the past, please accept this offer. You already know what to do.

Good luck.

—An Old Friend

I crumpled the paper in my hand in irritation.

Clara Morgan was my mother.

Whoever had sent this probably didn’t even know she was dead.

Though I angrily threw the note onto the floor, the tube still remained in my hand. I lifted it to eye level and examined the tiny seed once more.

The Solenne Flower…

That was what the note had called it.

I was certain I had never heard of such a flower before.

I pried the cork loose with my fingernail, and a brown seed fell into my palm. It looked oddly similar to a coffee bean.

Without thinking, I ran outside.

As I hurried toward the greenhouse to gather supplies, I searched for excuses to justify what I was doing. The gift might have been addressed to my mother, but wasn’t it natural for her daughter to accept it instead?

At the same time, a voice deep inside me insisted that I had to plant the seed, no matter what.

Unfortunately, I was foolish enough to listen.

I grabbed a shovel and a watering can from the greenhouse and headed toward a patch of soil in the corner of the garden.

The earth was dry and barren.

If it had been anyone else, they probably would’ve kept the garden alive in memory of their mother, filling it with flowers just as she once had. But ever since her death, I hadn’t touched the soil even once. Wild weeds had long since claimed the garden as their own.

Holding the watering can, I knelt down and dampened the cracked earth. I dug a small hole with the shovel and gently placed the seed inside. After covering it with soil again, I dusted off my hands and stood up.

“There. Done.”

The moment I rose to my feet, my head spun slightly.

Memories flooded my mind one after another.

“Mom, look! How is it?”

“Good job, Charlotte. It looks wonderful, sweetheart. But look—we have to cover it too, so it can grow beneath the soil. There, all done!”

I must’ve been three or four years old back then. I had sneaked into the greenhouse behind my mother’s back, found the first packet of seeds I could reach—rare ones she had imported from overseas—and torn it open, dumping them carelessly into a flowerpot.

Poor Mom hadn’t scolded me.

Instead, she taught me how to cover the seeds properly with soil.

I shook my head.

Now wasn’t the time to drown in memories. I needed to go back inside and finish my portrait assignment.

But when I returned to my room, the dizziness still hadn’t faded.

Exhausted, I collapsed onto my bed.

The moment I closed my eyes, darkness swallowed me whole.

“You idiot girl, what kind of trouble did you cause this time?!”

“What else can you expect from a prostitute’s daughter?”

“Beatrice? You mean the troublesome daughter of the Willow Duchy?”

When I opened my eyes, every inch of my body ached. My back felt stiff, as though I’d been sleeping on solid stone. Groaning, I tried to sit up.

The moment I saw my surroundings, my hands flew to my eyes. I rubbed them over and over, but nothing changed.

As I staggered to my feet in shock, hair spilled over my shoulders.

The red strands were gone.

In their place were soft blonde curls.

“No way…”

This had to be a dream.

I had fallen asleep in my room—there was no way I could wake up inside Beatrice’s body, in the middle of a cave.

As panic overwhelmed me, my mind failed to withstand the shock. Suddenly, I collapsed onto the cold stone floor and lost consciousness once again.