Page 227 of Sinister

After checking one of the shelves, I give up. I’d be here for eternity. Instead, I start searching for other things that might give me a clue about the owner of this home. Surprisingly, everything looks just as it had in my dreams. Very little has changed, except for a few modern appliances. The furniture, the layout—it’s all the same.

I move through a dimly lit corridor, checking room after room. Even the art studio is empty of anything useful. But as I walk farther, I find a door I’ve never tried before. Not even in my dreams. I step forward tentatively and place my hand on the doorknob. It’s locked. I sigh in frustration, muttering a curse under my breath as I look around for a key.

Just as I’m about to turn back, a soft click breaks the stillness. I whirl around to see a flicker of light shining from beneath the door. Without thinking much of it, I try the knob again. This time, it turns.

“What?” I whisper to myself.

I push the door open and find myself in a beautiful Baroque-style study. Everything is dusty and covered in spider webs—so much so that it seems no one’s stepped inside for over a hundred years. I run my fingers along one of the hardwood shelves, and a thick layer of dust clings to my skin. This room hasn’t been touched in ages.

I look back at the door, another shiver running down my spine. That same feeling returns, like someone is here with me, something I can’t see. The door had been locked. I’m sure of it.

Still, this may be my chance to find something. I begin searching immediately for any hidden clue.

Toward the back of the room, there’s a massive hardwood desk, the kind you only see in museums. The craftsmanship—hidden compartments, ornate carvings—feels antique, Victorian or earlier.

I allow myself a moment to admire it. It’s like stepping back in time, touching a piece of history. But just as I begin opening compartments, a stream of light cuts into the room from the hallway. It’s like a beacon, and it lands on a stack of papers in the corner.

I blink, a little unnerved.

“Is anyone there?” I call out.

Nothing.

“Sin? Is that you?” I ask again, thinking maybe he’s hiding in the shadows. Still nothing. I’m alone. Alone in this strange, silent room.

I shake off the nerves and kneel on the dusty carpet, pulling the stack of papers toward me.

The first envelope spills open, and several black-and-white photographs slip out, yellowed by time. I pick one up with trembling hands. Two men are in the picture. One of them I recognize immediately. It’s the man who held me in his arms just hours ago. Sin.

A shiver passes through me. This is confirmation. If I had ever believed dream-Sin was just my imagination, a superimposition of the present-day Sin onto a fantasy, I was wrong. The man in the picture is him. Exactly him. The same features, the same eyes. There’s no mistaking it.

But that’s impossible, isn’t it? Even if reincarnation were real, how could someone look exactly the same? Scientifically, that’s not how it works.

I turn my attention to the second man. He’s shorter, with tousled hair and thick-rimmed glasses. I don’t recognize him, but something about his posture feels familiar, like a memory I can’t quite grasp.

Turning the photo over, I read: 1894 - Sin and Sinclair.

“What?” I whisper.

Sin and Sinclair. Two people. That means Sinclair must be Arnoult. Right?

I set the picture aside and pick up another. This one shows a group—eight people. Again, I spot both Sin and the man I now know as Sinclair. On the back, written in elegant script: Theology Department of St. Anselm Hall University, 1895.

Names are listed left to right. And there it is—Sinclair Arnoult the First. But Sin? His name is listed as Kimaris.

I exhale. Relief floods through me. For all my fears, this is the proof I needed. Sin isn’t Arnoult. He’s not the father of Leah’s child. He never betrayed me.

Still, what is his connection to all this?

The next picture makes my hands tremble. It’s a couple. Sin. And me. Or . . . not me. A past version of me. But we look identical. How can that be?

For so long, I’ve convinced myself that my dreams were just symbolic. That I inserted myself as the main character in someone else’s story. But now?

I flip the picture over. Petra and Sin, 1896.

“No,” I breathe.

It’s me. Same face. Same name. And him—same man. Same name.