Rain had a way of making the city feel quieter than it really was.

It blurred the neon signs outside the café window into streaks of gold and crimson, while the steady tapping against the glass became little more than background noise.

Anastasia Kim didn't notice any of it.

Anesthesia Kim

22yrs

college student

Her attention was locked on the worn paperback resting in her hands.

*The Winter Crown.*

The title shimmered beneath the café lights, its silver lettering already fading from years of use. She had bought the novel from a secondhand bookstore months ago, expecting nothing more than another cliche historical romance.

Instead, it had become an obsession.

She had laughed with its heroes.

Cried for its victims.

And spent countless nights arguing with strangers online over one man everyone seemed to hate.

Prince Aleksandr Volkov.

According to every reader, he was a monster.

A butcher.

A traitor who deserved the execution waiting for him in the final chapter.

Anastasia sighed, turning another page.

"They never tried to understand you..."

She traced a finger over the illustration of the prince.

Jet-black hair.

Cold silver eyes.

The artist had captured him like winter itself—beautiful enough to make people forget how dangerous frost could be.

"You're not the villain," she murmured. "You're just the one history blamed."

A familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Still defending fictional men?"

Ji-eun

23yrs

College student

Anastasia looked up to find her coworker, Ji-eun, grinning as she placed a cup of hot chocolate on the table.

"I'll never understand you."

"They're misunderstood."

"They're walking red flags."

"They're interesting."

Ji-eun laughed.

"You've been saying that since Chapter Twenty."

"Because everyone keeps ignoring the obvious."

She closed the book with a soft thud.

"If someone had listened to Aleksandr instead of assuming the worst, half the people in this novel would still be alive."

"You sound personally offended."

"I am."

The café speakers announced closing time.

Ji-eun stretched.

"I'm leaving before the buses stop running."

Anastasia glanced at the wall clock.

10:47 p.m. Too late.

She still hadn't reached the ending.

"Go," she said, slipping the novel into her bag. "I'll finish it on the way home."

"Don't stay up reading again."

"No promises."

The bus was nearly empty.

Only the driver, an elderly woman asleep against the window, and a university student wearing headphones occupied the dimly lit vehicle.

He just glanced at her and back to his phone.

Rainwater raced down the windows like rivers.

Anastasia settled into the back seat and pulled out *The Winter Crown* once more.

Chapter Eighty-Six.

The empire had fallen into chaos.

The palace burned.

Aleksandr stood alone before thousands of soldiers, his sword stained crimson.

He wasn't smiling.

He wasn't begging.

He simply looked tired.

Anastasia's chest tightened.

*"If only someone had believed me..."*

The line made her stop.

She frowned.

"...I don't remember this."

She flipped back.

Read it again.

No.

She was certain.

Those words had never been there.

The ink looked...new.

Almost wet.

A chill crawled across her spine.

Then another sentence slowly appeared beneath it.

Not printed.

Written.

As though an invisible hand dragged a pen across the page.

**What would you have done differently?**

Her heartbeat quickened.

"What..."

She rubbed her eyes.

The words remained.

The bus suddenly lurched.

Passengers screamed.

Bright white headlights exploded through the rain.

The deafening blare of a horn tore through the night.

Everything happened at once.

Books scattered across the floor.

Glass shattered.

Metal screamed.

Anastasia instinctively clutched the novel to her chest.

The final thing she saw before darkness swallowed her whole...

...was the last blank page of *The Winter Crown*.

And a single sentence appearing in silver ink.

**Then come and rewrite it.**

To be continued.....

Cold.

It wasn't the numbing cold of rain.

Nor the sharp sting of winter in Seoul.

This cold was ancient.

It settled into her bones like it had existed long before she had taken her first breath.

Anastasia's eyelashes trembled.

A distant bell echoed through the silence.

Once.

Twice.

Then a chorus of bells answered from somewhere far away, rolling across the morning like waves over a frozen sea.

Her eyes fluttered open.

For several long moments, she simply stared.

Above her stretched an elegant ceiling carved from pale oak, its intricate patterns woven with silver vines and tiny crystal stars that shimmered in the morning light.

A magnificent chandelier hung overhead, every crystal catching the sun like frozen drops of water.

She frowned.

Hospitals didn't have chandeliers.

Slowly, she pushed herself upright.

The blanket that slipped from her shoulders was impossibly soft, lined with white fur she couldn't identify.

The room around her was unfamiliar.

A stone fireplace crackled gently in one corner.

Dark walnut furniture stood polished to perfection.

Heavy sapphire-blue curtains swayed with the breeze coming through a half-open window.

The air smelled of cedarwood, melted beeswax, and lavender.

Nothing looked modern.

Nothing made sense.

"...Where am I?"

Her voice sounded hoarse.

No answer came.

Only the distant bells.

Drawn by instinct, Anastasia climbed out of bed and walked toward the open window.

The icy wind brushed against her cheeks.

Then she saw it.

Her breath caught.

Beyond the palace walls stretched a city unlike anything she had ever seen.

Snow blanketed every rooftop.

Towering sapphire domes crowned magnificent cathedrals, their golden crosses blazing beneath the pale morning sun.

Smoke curled lazily from countless chimneys.

Wide stone streets wound through the capital, already alive with horse-drawn carriages, merchants bundled in thick winter cloaks, and soldiers in dark blue uniforms patrolling the avenues.

Far in the distance stood a river frozen beneath sheets of glittering ice.

It was beautiful.

Silent.

Regal.

A city that looked as though winter itself ruled over it.

Her heartbeat quickened.

"I know this place..."

The words escaped before she realized she had spoken them.

She had never traveled here.

Never seen it in person.

And yet...

Every street.

Every tower.

Every cathedral.

She knew them.

Her fingers tightened around the frosted windowsill.

"... PERTOVA."

The name slipped from her lips like a forgotten memory.

The Imperial Capital.

The heart of the Velikaya Imperiya.

The city where every smile hid a conspiracy.

"No..."

She took an unsteady step backward.

"It can't be..."

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed outside the room.

Before Anastasia could react, the wooden door opened.

A young maid carrying a silver tray entered.

She froze the moment their eyes met.

"You're awake!"

Relief washed across the girl's face.

"I thought the fever had taken you."

Anastasia stared.

The maid wore a simple black dress beneath a crisp white apron.

A linen cap rested neatly over her short hair.

Everything—from her clothes to the way she carried herself—looked exactly as servants had been described in **The Winter Crown**.

The novel.

A chill crawled down Anastasia's spine.

The maid hurried forward.

"How are you feeling?"

"...Who are you?"

The maid blinked. "It's me, Katya."

She tilted her head.

"Have you forgotten me already?"

Katya...

The name stirred something.

A side character.

A palace maid.

She had appeared only a handful of times.

Anastasia's pulse began to race.

No...

No, this wasn't possible.

"This..."

She looked around the room once more.

The furniture.

The fireplace.

The snow beyond the window.

The cathedral bells.

Her breathing became uneven.

"This is..."

Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

"...The Winter Crown."

Katya frowned.

"The winter crown?"

"No..." Anastasia quickly shook her head.

"Nothing."

Katya exchanged a puzzled glance with her.

"You've been talking strangely since you woke up."

A sudden knock interrupted them.

Three sharp knocks.

The door swung open before anyone answered.

An older woman entered.

She was tall, stern, and impeccably dressed in a dark navy gown trimmed with silver embroidery.

Every servant immediately lowered their head.

Even Katya straightened so quickly that the tray rattled.

The woman surveyed the room with piercing gray eyes.

"So."

"You're awake."

Her voice was calm.

But not kind.

Anastasia instinctively lowered her gaze.

"I'm sorry..."

"You should be."

The woman stepped closer.

"The Winter Banquet begins tonight."

"The palace has no time for sick servants."

Servants...

Anastasia frowned.

Was she...?

The woman held out a neatly folded uniform.

"Report to the East Corridor before the second cathedral bell."

Her heartbeat stopped.

The East Corridor.

No.

No.

Her mind raced through the opening chapter of the novel.

The East Corridor was where a palace maid accidentally overheard a conversation between two high-ranking nobles.

She wasn't supposed to hear it.

Before dawn...

Her body was discovered beneath the frozen bridge behind the Winter Palace.

The official report called it an unfortunate accident.

But every reader knew better.

She had been murdered.

Anastasia slowly accepted the uniform.

Her hands trembled.

The housekeeper turned without another word.

As the door closed behind her, the room fell silent once again.

Katya sighed.

"Housekeeper Vera is terrifying."

Anastasia barely heard her.

East Corridor.

Winter Banquet.

The first chapter.

Every event was unfolding exactly as it had in the novel.

"I..."

She looked down at the neatly folded black-and-white uniform in her hands.

A strange unease settled over her.

Something still didn't feel right.

She hurried toward the ornate mirror standing beside the wardrobe.

For a heartbeat...

She expected to see herself.

Instead...

A young woman stared back.

Soft brown hair fell just below her shoulders.

Amber eyes blinked in confusion.

Her features were delicate.

Beautiful.

Completely unfamiliar.

Anastasia stumbled backward.

"...Who..." She touched her own face.

The girl in the mirror copied the movement.

"This isn't..."

Katya looked at her oddly. "What do you mean?"

Anastasia's lips trembled. "My face..."

Katya laughed. "What about it?"

"You still look like Anna."

Anna.

The name struck her like lightning.

Anna.

The unnamed palace maid.

The girl whose death occupied less than two pages.

The girl whose existence every reader had forgotten.

Except Anastasia.

Her knees nearly gave way.

"No..." She whispered.

"No..."

She wasn't the heroine.

She wasn't the villain.

She wasn't even an important side character.

She had become the girl who was never meant to survive the first chapter.

At that exact moment, something on the bedside table caught her eye.

A familiar blue hardcover book.

Its silver title glimmered beneath the morning light.

**The Winter Crown.**

With shaking hands, Anastasia opened it.

The pages turned by themselves.

Stopping at Chapter One.

The ink shimmered.

Then, slowly...

A new sentence appeared beneath the printed text.

A sentence she had never read before.

**Welcome back, Reader.**

Another line followed.

**Survive until sunrise... if you can.**

To be continued.....

The book snapped shut.

Anastasia stared at the silver letters embossed across its cover.

**The Winter Crown.**

Her trembling fingers traced the cold metal crown engraved above the title.

"...Survive until sunrise."

The words echoed inside her mind.

She swallowed hard. This wasn't a warning.

It was a countdown.

"Anna?"

Katya's concerned voice broke the silence. "Are you feeling dizzy again?"

Anastasia quickly hid the book beneath the blanket.

"N-No."

She forced a smile.

"I'm fine."

She wasn't. Nothing about this was fine.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as memories from the novel surfaced one after another.

Chapter One.

The Winter Banquet.

The East Corridor.

A conversation never meant to be heard.

A frozen bridge.

A dead maid.

Anna.

Every reader had forgotten her by Chapter Two.

Except Anastasia.

Because she had cried over that scene.

Not because Anna was important...

But because she wasn't. She had died without a single line of dialogue. Without anyone mourning her.

Without even a grave.

"...I'm not dying."

The whisper escaped before she realized it.

Katya blinked.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Anastasia stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her maid's uniform.

If she knew how Anna died...

Then all she had to do was avoid the East Corridor.

Simple.

Right?

The palace was even grander from the inside.

Endless corridors stretched beneath painted ceilings depicting emperors long dead.

Crystal chandeliers illuminated polished marble floors.

Portraits of forgotten nobles watched silently from gilded walls.

Servants hurried in every direction carrying silver trays, fresh flowers, embroidered tablecloths, and crystal goblets.

Everyone looked terrified. No one walked.

They rushed.

As though the palace itself punished those who moved too slowly.

Katya leaned closer.

"Don't stare."

"What?"

"The portraits."

"They say the former Empress hated servants."

Anastasia immediately lowered her eyes.

"...Right."

Even the superstitions matched the novel. Every detail felt painfully real.

Housekeeper Vera stood in the center of the servants' hall.

"The Winter Banquet welcomes more than four hundred guests tonight."

Her voice echoed through the room.

"Nobles."

"Foreign ambassadors."

"Military commanders."

"The Imperial Family."

A wave of nervous whispers spread among the servants. Vera's gaze swept across them.

"If anyone embarrasses the palace..."

She paused.

"...pray death finds you before I do."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then assignments began.

"Kitchen."

"Western Hall."

"Royal Library."

"Grand Ballroom."

Each servant stepped forward when their name was called.

Anastasia kept repeating one sentence in her mind.

Not East Corridor.

Please...

Not East Corridor.

"...Anna."

Her breath caught.

"East Corridor."

Everything around her seemed to stop.

No.

No.

This wasn't happening.

She slowly stepped forward.

"Y-Yes, Housekeeper."

Vera handed her a silver tray.

"Deliver refreshments to the eastern gallery."

The eastern gallery.

Not corridor.

Anastasia blinked.

She looked up.

"Excuse me..."

Vera frowned.

"What?"

"I thought you said—"

"I said gallery."

The housekeeper narrowed her eyes.

"Have you gone deaf?"

Anastasia quickly lowered her head.

"No, Madam."

"...Forgive me."

Relief flooded her chest.

She almost laughed.

She had remembered it wrong.

It wasn't the corridor.

It was the gallery.

She was safe.

Completely safe.

Hours passed in a blur.

Snow continued falling outside the palace windows.

By evening, the Winter Palace had transformed.

Thousands of candles illuminated the corridors.

Fresh white roses decorated every staircase.

Music drifted through the halls as noble carriages arrived one after another.

The banquet had begun.

Anastasia carried a silver tray toward the eastern gallery.

She exhaled.

"I survived."

Nothing had happened.

No secret meeting.

No murder.

Maybe...

Maybe changing even a small detail had altered the story.

She smiled for the first time that day.

Then—

Crash!

A young servant collided with her.

Crystal glasses shattered across the marble floor.

"Oh no!"

The servant turned pale.

"I'm sorry!"

"I'm so sorry!"

Anastasia knelt to gather the broken pieces.

"It's okay—"

She froze.

One shard had slid beneath a half-open door.

The East Corridor.

Her smile disappeared.

She knew that door.

She remembered it now.

Not the gallery.

The corridor was beyond it.

The conversation...

didn't happen in the gallery.

It happened in the private room connected to it.

"...No."

She reached for the glass shard.

Voices.

Someone was speaking beyond the door.

Low.

Calm.

Dangerously familiar.

She couldn't hear the words.

Only fragments.

"...tonight..."

"...the Crown Prince..."

"...before midnight..."

Her blood turned to ice.

This was it.

The scene.

The one that killed Anna.

She jerked her hand back.

"I have to leave."

Now.

Immediately.

Forget the glass.

Forget the tray.

Forget everything.

She rose to her feet—

The door creaked open.

A shadow stretched across the marble floor.

Someone...

was stepping out.

To be continued....