THE SILVER HAIR CLIP: He reached out with dirty hands and held out a ghost from my past

By midnight, the manor was completely silent. Rain had begun to fall, heavy drops tapping relentless rhythms against the tall stained-glass windows of my suite.

I dressed in dark riding clothes, pulling a sturdy leather coat over my shoulders and packing a small lantern, a sharp hunting knife, and the mysterious note into a satchel. I left Leo under the watchful, sworn protection of Clara, locking my suite door from the outside and taking the key with me.

Sneaking out through the glass doors of the conservatory, I made my way to the stables. I saddled my midnight-black mare, Selene, avoiding the main gates where Marcus's guards were stationed, and cut through the narrow hunting path that led straight into the northern pine woods.

The forest was pitch black, illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning and the swinging beam of my lantern. The rain turned the dirt trail into thick mud, but Selene knew these woods well.

After an hour of hard riding, the looming silhouette of St. Jude’s Monastery emerged from the mist. Its ancient stone arches were crumbling, draped in ivy, its bell tower partially collapsed from a fire decades ago.

I tethered my horse inside a ruined stone stable at the perimeter and approached the heavy oak doors of the main sanctuary. They were locked with a heavy iron chain, but a side archway lay open, choked with fallen masonry.

Squeezing through the gap, I stepped into the hollow, echoing interior. My lantern light danced over moss-covered flagstones, ruined pews, and headless stone statues of saints.

"Elena?" I called out softly, my voice swallowed by the damp vastness of the ruins. "Arthur?"

Only the sound of rain dripping from the ceiling answered me.

Remembering the note, I searched for the subterranean crypts. Following a narrow spiral staircase carved directly into the bedrock beneath the altar, I descended into the cold, subterranean air.

The catacombs below smelled of ancient dust and copper. Carved into the limestone walls were rows of burial niches—and above each section were faint numbers painted in faded black iron-gall ink.

I swept my lantern along the walls, searching the rows.

Cell 06... Cell 07... Cell 08...

I stopped before Cell 09.

Unlike the other open burial niches, Cell 09 was sealed with a heavy, modern iron door secured by an electronic keypad—an absurdly high-tech anomaly amidst the 300-year-old stone crypt.

I stepped closer, my heart pounding. On the digital keypad, a small red light blinked in the darkness.

It required a six-digit code.

I stood in the freezing dark, my mind racing. What code would Elena use? Our birthdays? My mother's death anniversary?

I tried our mother's birthday: 0 4 1 2 8 8.

BEEP. Red light.

I tried the date Elena disappeared: 1 0 1 5 1 4.

BEEP. Red light.

I had only one attempt left before the lock would likely freeze or sound an alarm. I stared at the keypad, forcing myself to calm down, remembering the tiny slip of paper.

44.2091 - 12.1104

The coordinates!

Taking the last digits of the coordinates—0 9 1 1 0 4—I pressed the rubber buttons with a trembling finger.