Adrian brushed a fallen leaf across the cracked marble in the far corner of the Vale estate, the place where ivy grew wild and the house never looked. He leaned against the cool stone, staring at the night sky — stars arranged like old patterns older than any book he had read.

A sudden whirl of air lifted his hair.
Tiny sparks gathered in the ivy.

He blinked — pale shimmering wings, threaded with gold, hovered in the leaves.
Too small for a person.
Too bright for an insect.
Light pulsed weakly in its chest, like a lantern running out of oil.

The glow wavered — then a whisper spilled through the air, soft and certain.

Aiden Vell.

The voice felt like something that had always been inside his bones.

Adrian blinked again — the ivy only held darkness now, still and heavy, as if nothing had been there at all.

And Adrian, still only a boy, could not tell whether he had witnessed a miracle —

or a memory that did not belong to him.