𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗗, 𝗨𝗡𝗪𝗘𝗗 [ 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘹 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ]
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 1
"Over and over, I keep going over the world we knew
Once when you walked beside me
That inconceivable, that unbelievable world we knew
When we two were in love."
—ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʙʏ ғʀᴀɴᴋ sɪɴᴀᴛʀᴀ
CHAPTER 1
The house that seems alive.
AAAHHHHHH!!!!
M/N jerked upright, his heart leaping to his throat. "Ugh..." he groaned, blinking blearily at his phone. 12:30 a.m. The same as the night before.
He slumped back, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously?”
The scream had returned, but just close enough to shred any hope of sleep. As a light sleeper, it pissed him off. Worse, it might become a routine.
He tossed the blanket aside and stood, grabbing a shawl from the bedpost and throwing it around his shoulders. The weight of frustration and exhaustion drove him to the door.
A walk. That’s what he needed.
It was a habit he’d picked up when he still lived under his parents’ roof, escaping into the night whenever their voices rose, scolding him over the latest girl he’d 'embarrassed' or rejected. The cold always helped settle his nerves.
"I hope it's not freezing..." he mumbled, wrapping the shawl tighter around his frame.
AAAHHHHH!!!
The scream followed him down the stairs, growing louder.
“I swear, if that damn thing’s still screaming when I come back…” M/n muttered darkly, slamming the front door behind him. The noise dulled instantly, muffled by thick walls.
Outside, the night air wrapped around him like a sigh. The moon hung high, casting silver light over the estate. It was quiet, peaceful even. He let the silence guide his feet, wandering toward the overgrown garden.
But then… he stopped.
“What the hell…?”
The path, a path that led to something, was gone. In its place, a patch of untouched grass.
M/n squinted, stepping forward. Faint impressions remained, a few broken pieces of stone tiles hinting that something had once been there.
"This looks intentional..." he whispered, heart thudding softly.
"Like someone wanted it gone."
Without fully realizing, he followed the faint trail deeper into the overgrowth. Logic whispered to turn back, but his feet had other plans. The cold wind tousled his hair, but M/n barely noticed. He expected a cliff, a hidden gazebo, or something beautiful.
But the trail led him to nothing like that.
Just a single gravestone.
"...What?"
M/n stepped closer, the hair on his arms rising. It wasn’t just that it was hidden, this grave looks so out of place.
"This isn't right..." he muttered, crouching to brush the grime away from the plaque. Dirt clung stubbornly to the cloth, but eventually, the name emerged.
Here lies
Mikhail Beaufort.
M/n's breath caught. The son of the diary’s owner…?
But why was he buried out here? Alone? Why erase the path?
He blinked, then noticed something more. Beneath the name, faint etching—half-worn but still legible.
M/n read aloud, voice barely above a whisper:
"I'm bound to you till my last breath… bound to you until the very end..."
The air turned heavier, and M/n didn’t see the sky blackening above him.
"You will be happy, for I will be the cause of your smile..."
Behind him, the ground stirred. Dirt shifted. Something began to rise.
"You will not cry, for I will make sure it's only tears of joy..."
M/n's eyes were still on the plaque, oblivious to the shape forming behind him.
"From this day onwards—"
"I will be your spouse."
M/n froze. A voice behind him, velvety voice that offers warmth, whispered directly into his ear.
He turned sharply.
And screamed.
A man, no— a corpse. stood behind him, smiling with eyes full of hearts and longing. His skin bore the pallor of death, patches of flesh exposed beneath a once-elegant coat. Despite decay, he remained intact, no torn limbs, no disfigurement.
And disturbingly… striking.
Slick brown hair, dull olive eyes that flickered with unnatural affection, a mole resting just below his lower lip. His suit, though frayed and dirt-stained, clung to him with regal pride.
"I apologise for startling you, Irog. My name is Mikhail Beaufort, may I have the honor of knowing your name?" M/n was still in shock; never in his life would he have expected this turn in his life.
"H-H-How are you a-alive!?" He stammers, stepping back to give distance, not wanting to be close to a dead man. Who knows what he could do?
"Ah, you see, I'm not quite... alive. Not fully, anyway. I've remained stuck between the land of the living and the afterlife for quite some time, waiting for you to come along. And here you are." Mikhail laughed lightly, he made his way over to M/n, His movements fluidly elegant, his step light as he came to a stop in front of M/n. He knelt on the floor, taking both his hands in his own.
"Though I am surprised to see you, Sinta. I never thought that anyone would find me. I've been waiting so long... but you're here now." His lips curved into a gentle smile. He gave a tender kiss on M/n's knuckles.
out of reflex, M/n snatched his hand away from Mikhail.
"What's wrong, Irog?" Mikhail asked out of pure concern. He tried to go near M/n, but the man turned around and ran away, leaving Mikhail confused and shocked.
Why did he run away? Is it because of Mikhail's slovenly appearance?
"Oh.. Irog?... surely I wasn't that horrid to look at..?" He murmured sadly. Mikhail looks back at his own grave, and the dirt is messed up.
He knelt beside his grave, patting the disturbed earth back into place with care, as though tucking in a child for sleep. Dirt clung to his pale hands, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he wiped his sleeve across the plaque, tenderly brushing away the grime.
“I finally found my spouse, Mother...” Mikhail whispered, his voice a mix of triumph and affection. He tilted his face toward the stars, his smile serene.
Then, with practiced grace, he rose to his feet, adjusted the hem of his coat, and turned in the direction M/n had fled.
M/N ran.
He ran like hell was nipping at his heels. Branches scratched at his legs, thorns clawed his shawl, but he didn’t stop, not even for a second.
He didn’t need to. That thing had looked him in the eye, had touched him.
"This is a dream. Just a horrible dream. It has to be."
He bolted into the manor and slammed the front door shut with trembling hands, locking it tight. But that wasn’t enough. Every door, every window. he checked and locked them all, frantically pacing like a man possessed.
His knees gave out in the entryway. He collapsed onto the cold tile, chest heaving, cold sweat coated his skin, and his dirty-blonde hair clung to his face.
The corpse could be anywhere.
M/n scrambled to his feet and fled to the master bedroom, bolting the door behind him. He yanked open the drawer and retrieved his pocket knife, gripping the handle so tightly his knuckles turned white. He sat on the edge of the bed, knife in hand, heart pounding.
This can't be real.
A corpse had spoken to him, deemed him as its spouse.
The ghosts had been one thing. Harmless screams and sounds. But this...! this was flesh and blood, stitched together by madness and delusion.
Every creak of the house, every groan of the wood, made M/n flinch. He fought to keep his eyes open, but fatigue gripped him like chains. His lashes fluttered. The knife slipped slightly in his weakening grasp.
Sleep won.
MIKHAIL wandered through the dense forest, brushing past leaves and branches as he navigated the moonlit path. His mind, however, was elsewhere, drifting in daydreams of a life he had longed for in death.
A married life, a home, a beloved who had called to him with a vow that reached beyond the grave.
And now, they were bound.
Mikhail picked up his pace, excitement warming the cold in his limbs. The manor peeked through the trees.
His manor.
The place he'd once lived. The place he would return to, this time with his spouse beside him.
It had changed, but only slightly. The structure remained intact. The vines had been stripped. Someone had loved this house enough to restore it. To bring it back to life.
Just like he had been brought back.
He approached the front door, straightening his posture and dusting off his clothes. Appearances mattered, even in undeath. But when he turned the knob, it refused to budge.
“Locked...? Did he lock it by accident?” Mikhail mused aloud, puzzled but not upset. He raised a hand and knocked politely.
“Irog? Could you please open the door?”
Silence.
He waited a few seconds before knocking again, more gently this time. Still, no response. His expression shifted, confused, then understanding.
“Ah, perhaps I’ve startled him. I did appear rather suddenly,” he murmured. “How unruly of me not to come through the front properly. Let’s try the back.”
He walked around the manor, humming faintly, though the locked back door greeted him with the same unwelcome click. His brow furrowed slightly.
“Locked as well?” He frowned. “Surely this isn’t a rejection...”
He stepped back and glanced toward the windows.
“It would be so...ungentlemanly to force my way in,” he said, the word bitter on his tongue.
“But I just want to see him...” He tried each window, one by one. Locked. Every single one.
Mikhail stood in place for a moment, considering. He didn’t want to frighten his beloved. Didn’t want to leave the wrong impression.
With a soft sigh, he lowered himself near the back door and leaned against a cluster of bushes. The leaves cradled his head like pillows.
“I suppose I’ll wait here,” he said softly to the night.
“He’ll come around... eventually.” A gentle smile curved his lips.
“I’m so happy. I finally found my one true love...” His voice trembled with affection, a lovesick warmth that clashed against the decay of his body.
In his mind, he saw it all, holding hands by the hearth, whispering in bed, planning a future far from the world’s prying eyes.
“I’ll wait for you,” Mikhail whispered, closing his eyes as though sleep still meant something to him.
“For as long as it takes.”
M/N jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved as his mind scrambled to piece together last night’s events.
The grave.
The voice.
Mikhail.
Did he follow me?
M/n gripped the pocket knife still on his bedside table and slowly stepped out of the bedroom.
Please let it be a dream.
Please...
He approached the front door, his hand trembled as he reached for the knob. Slowly, cautiously, he cracked it open.
Nothing.
No corpse on the doorstep, no trail of soil, no dark silhouette waiting in the trees.
The yard was quiet. The wind tugged gently at the overgrown grass. Birds chirped, unaware of M/n's internal spiral.
Did he leave? Did he realize the vow was accidental? Did he go find someone else...?
M/n stepped outside, each footfall heavy, reluctant. The safety of the manor felt like a barrier he was forcing himself to breach.
He followed the path he’d taken the night before, eyes darting to the trees, the shadows, the forest edge. There it was, the grave.
Still standing. The plaque was polished.
The dirt, once disturbed and gaping, had been neatly patted down, as though nothing had ever crawled out of it.
M/n stared.
It wasn’t a dream. The grave was still there. The plaque was real. But Mikhail was... gone?
“Where could he have gone...? Well, as long as he stays far away from me...” he muttered, breathing out shakily.
But even as relief settled in his chest, a chill crawled up his spine. Something in him whispered that Mikhail was still here. Watching.
He shook the thought away and turned back toward the manor. The morning sun peeked through the clouds, and M/n decided to start his day the usual way, coffee and toast.
Once inside, he busied himself in the kitchen. The warmth of the mug in his hands calmed him, and he let the mundanity of the morning wash over the lingering fear.
If the corpse is gone... that’s one less thing to deal with. I have to focus. Clean the house, fix the furniture, move on.
After finishing his breakfast, M/n filled a watering can from the sink. He remembered the wilted flowers in the backyard and figured it was a good place to start. A new routine. Something peaceful. He stepped outside, humming softly.
He didn’t notice the body curled behind the thick bushes near the back door.
“I should buy flower seeds...” M/n mused aloud as he walked toward the withering bed. “Might give me something to do. Something to talk to.”
The garden greeted him with a tired sigh of decay. The flowers had long given up, left alone for too long without care.
M/n pulled on a pair of latex gloves and crouched by the flower bed. He began removing the lifeless stems, freeing them from their slow death. He patted down the soil, soft and damp beneath his fingertips.
He didn’t see the slow, gentle shift of leaves behind him.
Didn’t hear the rustle of cloth against grass.
Didn’t feel the eyes that opened, dark and warm and locked onto him like a man who had just woken to see the love of his life for the very first time.
Mikhail Beaufort groggily opened his olive eyes when he heard the rustling of dirt being dug. He turned his head to the sight and saw his beloved watering some plants in his backyard.
Mikhail was startled, realizing how much of a messed he must've look right now due to sleeping on the grass. he carefully stood up and fixed his attire and his messy hair, afterall, first impressions are pivotal, even if he already ruined it in the first meeting.
He stride towards M/n who was unaware of his presence. With a light tap, he made himself known.
"Goodmorning, my—"
"AHH!"
M/n was startled, in pure instincts, he raised his hands to block himself to the person infront of him.
The water can that he was holding caused tilted due to his action, causing the water to splash on Mikhail's face and clothes.
"... Irog... " Mikhail trailed of, looking down at his soaking clothes.
DICTIONARY SECTION
Irog — Sweetheart
Sinta — Cherished one
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