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Chapter 1

Grandfather's namesday always brought a resilient warmth to the gray backdrop of Kraków’s perpetual gloom. As was often the case in late autumn, rain pattered against the windows of our family home; but inside, the glow of candles and the comforting scent of tea made everything feel whole.

For a moment, I almost forgot the chill that had settled in my bones these past months. I moved among relatives, my smile sincere but measured, while my thoughts circled endlessly around Adam’s upcoming visit. He was my husband, my love. And yet—how strange that even surrounded by such warmth, knowing he’d be here soon, I still felt hollow, as if some essential part of me had gone missing...

I’d felt that way often. Although I had more than I could ask for—family, love, material comfort—something was missing. I couldn’t name it, but I knew that without it, I felt hollow. As if I wasn’t fully myself. As if my life was moving, but in the wrong direction—stuck, stagnant, misaligned. Something was just... off. But what was it? I hadn’t learned that yet.

My mother Aniela bustled about the small apartment, her hands never still as she passed plates of layered rum cake and poured tea with a flourish that belied our modest means. Her hair, streaked with silver that caught the candlelight, was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, and her eyes—the same deep brown as mine—sparkled with the quiet joy she found in bringing people together.

"Wanda, take this to your grandfather," she said, pressing a delicate porcelain cup into my hands. The warmth seeped through my fingers as I navigated the crowded room toward the Grandfather.

He sat in his worn leather chair by the window, his stern face softened by the warmth of the celebration, which had clearly brought him great pleasure. Silenced by injuries sustained during the uprising years ago, he could no longer speak—but his eyes conveyed volumes as they rested on each family member in turn. When I approached, his weathered hand reached for mine, squeezing gently in gratitude as I set the cup before him.

“Quince juice,” my great aunt said, handing me the small jar. “Homemade. Almost as good as real lemon.”

“Perfect,” I said, taking a spoonful and stirring it into his tea. “I’m sure he’ll love it.” “The lemon, though,” a younger aunt added with a wistful sigh. “Such a luxury. I would’ve loved it.”

“Maybe in the coming years, when times improve,” the great aunt told her.

Right... When times improve. The phrase kept surfacing, again and again. I couldn’t help but notice—it had slipped into nearly every conversation...

After the tea was served, the door opened, bringing with it a gust of cold air and Adam's tall figure. My heart quickened at the sight of him—it always did, even after years of marriage. Chestnut hair, cut in the style of a poet, fell in damp waves around his face, giving him a romantic look.

Feeling my gaze, his warm-toned eyes found mine at once. I smiled at him, genuinely happy he was here... and yet, the emptiness I carried flared up like a reminder—sharp, dramatic, disconcerting. You marry someone you believe is the love of your life, everything looks perfect, and still… it feels hollow. Was it his nature? Most likely.

He carried himself with the elegant poise of the aristocrat he had been, his movements deliberate yet graceful as he removed his coat and moved to greet my mother.

"Good afternoon, Mom," he said to my mother, bowing slightly as he took her hand, "I’m sorry for being late; the tenants had concerns that couldn’t wait.”

"Don’t worry," my mother replied, her smile genuine. Unlike many who sensed his otherness and recoiled from it, she had accepted him completely. "Come, the Grandfather has been asking for you."

This was not strictly true—being a mute, the Grandfather could not ask for anyone—but it was my mother's way of drawing Adam into our circle, of making him feel a part of the family. I watched as Adam took a shot glass of fruit liqueur from our old silver tray and knelt beside Grandfather’s chair. He spoke in low tones, inviting him to a toast to his health. The old man nodded, shifting his own glass and occasionally scratching notes in response. There was something both beautiful and painful in their interaction—two men marked by history, one silent by injury, the other rendered cold by the loss of his soul.

As the evening wore on, the apartment filled with the comfortable buzz of conversation. Male cousins and uncles discussed politics in hushed tones by the stove; aunts and nieces exchanged recipes and gossip at the table. Adam moved among them with practiced ease, his hand occasionally finding the small of my back as he passed, a reminder of our connection that never failed to send warmth through me...

And yet, I felt it again—that strange emptiness, like a hunger that could not be satisfied... I couldn’t understand this. I loved Adam with a fierceness that sometimes frightened me. I had accepted his vampirism, had embraced the cold beauty of our nights together, had found joy in his intellect and compassion. And yet, as I watched him laugh with my younger cousins, his face animated in a way it seldom was when we were alone, I couldn’t shake the sense that something essential was missing... that despite his devotion, despite the life we were building together, there remained a void within me that craved filling.

"You're very far away tonight," Adam commented quietly, appearing at my side like a shadow. His fingers brushed mine as he held my hand, the coolness of his skin a stark reminder of the difference between us.

“Oh, just thinking,” I said, offering a smile I hoped would mask the melancholy.

“Some new epistolary novel?” he ventured, knowing exactly which topic would draw me out... but this time, it wasn’t it.

“Ah, no... No, nothing like that… I’m just watching the family. It’s good to see everyone together... not arguing for once.”

“Your mother has a talent for organizing these gatherings,” he observed thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping the room before settling back on me.

“It’s true,” I nodded, grateful for the safety of the subject. “She has a gift for creating light in the dark. Without her, this family wouldn’t be the same. She’s the heart of it. I wish I could be like that.”

“I’m pretty sure you already are,” he said, his grip on my hand tightening slightly—firm, but his skin soft, warming under my touch. “When you’re not home, it’s different... Darker. Colder. Like there’s no light.”

“Ah,” I sighed, glancing toward the windows. Though it was only five, the sky was already pitch black. “There’s not much light at this latitude. Especially in winter. Still, better than Sweden or Norway.”

The darkness had intensified by the time we took our leave, the streets of Kraków transformed into gleaming rivers under the combined influence of rain and gas lamps. Adam held his coat above us both, sheltering us from the freezing drizzle as we navigated the slick cobblestones.

Krakow looked different at night—the buildings looming like ancient guardians, their windows glowing with faint golden light, the downpour lending everything a dreamlike quality.

"I've always loved this city in the rain," Adam shared softly, his breath visible in the cold air. "It reminds me of Paris, in the strangest of ways... though somewhat less grandiose, and much more melancholic.”

I leaned into him, grateful for his solidity as we turned onto the narrow street that led to our apartment. "Do you think that you were happy there? In Paris?”

His pause was brief but telling. "I was... alive there, you know. It was way before my death, and the transformation... Afterwards, there was only emptiness, I guess... I mean, until I returned and found you again, you know?"

The weight of his admission settled between us, heavy with both love and sorrow. We walked in silence for a few moments... Soon, the rain let up, and he slipped his coat back on. Lantern light caught the raindrops in his hair, turning them into tiny diamonds that shimmered with each step. Seeing it, I couldn’t help but dream aloud. “Imagine if I had diamonds in my hair…”

“Why are women so obsessed with diamonds?” Adam asked, slipping an arm around my waist and drawing me closer as we walked along the wet cobblestones. “Zircon would be good too,” I said, thinking it through. “I don’t really need a real diamond. I just like the sparkle. The way it catches the light and holds it. You know?”

“The eternal allure of the light,” he murmured, nodding with quiet understanding.

When we reached the building of his tenement, he drew me into the shadow of the doorway. His hands were gentle as they framed my face. The kiss that followed was gentle and cool, but also achingly tender—a silent confirmation of all we shared.

"I would give you all the diamonds in the world, if I could, " he whispered against my lips. "But even then, I wouldn’t want you to give up on the sunlight.”

I touched his cheek, unsure whether the chill I felt came from the weather outside, or from him... I loved this man, this beautiful, tragic creature who had chosen me as his anchor in an eternal night. And yet, as the darkness continued its existence around us, I couldn’t silence the whisper in my heart that insisted this—our love, our life together—was not quite enough.

Something was missing. No matter how much love was poured into my heart, it still felt hollow, and the reality around it; lacking.

*

Later that night, the rain returned with double the force; and once it had spent its fury, it softened into a quiet symphony against our bedroom window, weaving silver streams that blurred the nightscape of Kraków.

Adam lay beside me in his smooth, silky pyjamas, his body unnaturally still yet comforting in its familiar coolness. Our shoulders touched beneath the heavy quilt, a small point of connection as we both stared at the ceiling, lost in our respective thoughts. These quiet moments after returning from my family's gatherings often found us like this—physically close yet inhabiting different worlds, the silence between us filled with unspoken yearnings.

"I can’t help but think of my stay in Paris," Adam said suddenly, his voice barely disturbing the quietude of our bedroom. "There was an exhibition at the Louvre in '29... before the uprising. Delacroix was there, unveiling his 'Death of Sardanapalus.' Such violent beauty—the canvas seemed to burn with passion and despair."

I turned toward him, studying the perfect stillness of his profile. In moments like these, when he recalled his human life, Adam seemed most alive to me—as though the memories themselves restored some fragment of the soul he'd lost.

"What was he like?" I asked, curling closer to his side. "Delacroix?"

His lips curved slightly, his gaze still fixed on the distant landscapes of Paris that existed now only in his mind. "Intense. Consumed by his vision. He spoke of color as one might speak of a lover—with reverence and frustration in equal measure." His cold fingers found mine beneath the covers, intertwining with a tenderness that belied their chill. "The salons were extraordinary then; I wish you could see! The poets and revolutionaries sharing wine and ideals, debating until dawn... Hugo would recite verses that made the room fall silent. Chopin played compositions that felt like prayers..."

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine Adam in those glittering rooms—young, human, his eyes bright with passion rather than the ethereal glow of his vampiric nature. It was an adult version of him I would never know; a life I could glimpse through the fragments he shared, the words that he spoke to me.

"Sometimes I wonder if I would have liked that version of you," I whispered, the confession slipping out before I could contain it. "The man you were before life changed you...”

His body tensed beside me, a barely perceptible shift. "I was impetuous... idealistic to the point of foolishness. I believed in causes more than people." His fingers tightened around mine. "I would not have appreciated you back then as I do now, Wanda. I lacked the patience that eternity teaches, I suppose."

I let out a small breath, and the rain intensified—droplets striking the glass with renewed vigor. He was probably right... or maybe not? Maybe I would have loved him more... Maybe it wouldn’t feel this… empty, if he were truly alive, if he weren’t a vampire...

But what could I do? I loved him—with a soul or not. And this hollowness… it was the price I was paying. I truly believed it was better to feel hollow with him and still share a life together, than to feel more alive with someone else and not have him at all.

As if sensing my thoughts, he turned to face me, his warm-colored eyes studying me with that penetrating gaze that always made me feel transparent, as though he could see every secret thought.

"Are you happy, my love?" he asked, his voice so soft I might have imagined it... And yet, the question hung between us, weighted with implications. I reached up to trace the perfect curve of his jaw, his skin cool and smooth beneath my fingertips.

"I love you," I replied, answering a different question than the one he'd asked. "I love our life together."

He took my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm that sent shivers through me despite its coldness. "You love it, but it’s not complete," he said, the words not a question but a statement of fact. "I can’t give you children.”

The familiar ache awoke in my chest—not sharp as it once had been, but a dull, persistent throb. "No," I agreed softly, “but it doesn’t matter; there are other children in the family.”

"Yes... And, you don’t have to give up on the experience of motherhood,” he said, drawing me closer until my head rested on his chest where no heartbeat sounded, "when you're ready, I will transform you, so that you live forever. Once we amass more wealth, we can start an orphanage. All these children, will be yours. You will mother them and play with them, to your heart’s content.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth and coldness of this vision. It was both a gift and a sentence, offered with love but shadowed by the reality of what it would mean—leaving behind my humanity, the warmth of the sun on my skin... I would become just like him: beautiful, and cold, and eternal.

And perhaps... even more... hollow?

“The orphanage sounds wonderful, but I'm not ready for a transformation," I whispered quietly against his silent chest. "Not yet."

"It’s fine,” he said simply, his fingers moving to stroke my dark hair with exquisite gentleness. "I wouldn’t rush you into darkness, Wanda. When the time comes, you will know."

I didn’t say anything, insecure. What sign would tell me when to relinquish my humanity, to embrace the hollow existence that he had been forced to claim? I had a strange hunch that it wasn't children I longed for, not really—it was something more... indefinable. A completeness I couldn't name, a fire to balance Adam's perfect frost.

"Tell me more about Paris," I said instead, drifting back—once again—to the time when he was alive, as if we could somehow return to those days. "I'm thinking… maybe one day we could go there. When things get better, you know."

And there it was again: a promise for an uncertain future... It could have made us both sad, but deep down, we knew that such hopes were beautiful too. They were the kind that kept us going through the present moment.

"Sure, why not," he whispered, pressing his lips to my forehead in a tender kiss. "What would you like to know?"

“Tell me… about the people you knew there,” I said at last, knowing they had revealed more of themselves when he was still alive.

“Well...” Adam's body relaxed beneath me, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of my hair. "There was a poet—a fellow exile. He captured the pain of our divided Poland in verses that made grown men weep. We would gather in his rooms near the Seine, a small community of the displaced, proudly clinging to our language and memories like talismans..."

And he spoke on, each sentence painting vivid pictures of a Paris I had never seen. Listening, I felt closer to him—just for a moment, less empty. I pressed nearer, seeking warmth from a body that could offer none, yet finding comfort in the solid reality of him. His arm tightened around me, and his lips brushed my forehead in a kiss so gentle it might have been imagined. "Good night, my love," he murmured against my skin. "I hope you dream of those days, for both of us."

I curled into the cold sanctuary of his embrace, listening to the rain and his soft breathing—a human affectation that he maintained despite having no need for air. As sleep began to claim me, I could not shake the persistent thought that a piece of my heart still waiting to be awakened—a capacity for feeling that I hadn’t yet discovered.