After the unsettling encounter with the 'system', I take a deep, deliberate breath, forcing myself to steady the chaotic swirl of thoughts roiling within my mind. The tension in my chest tightens as I contemplate the daunting prospect of dinner with Alice and her long-awaited explanation of everything that has unfolded. The unknown looms before me like a fog, shrouding the truths I desperately need to grasp. Pushing aside my hesitation, I reach for the door, the cool handle comforting in my palm, and slowly pull it open, stepping into the hallway.
As I push myself upright, the hallway stretches before me, swallowed by a darkness so complete it feels alive. Shadows pool in the corners like liquid, pressing against the edges of my vision. The familiar contours of the space—walls, doorframes, even the worn floorboards beneath my feet—blur into ghostly outlines that shift when I blink. My eyes strain, aching to pierce the black, but there is no light to guide them, no faint glimmer to reassure me that the world is still solid and real.
A stubborn question rises, gnawing at the edges of my mind: Why is there no light here? In any ordinary place, the flicker of a candle or the soft glow of a lamp would be enough to anchor me, to cut through the fog of uncertainty. Here, however, even that small comfort feels impossibly distant. I reach out instinctively, hoping to graze the wall for a handhold, but my fingers find nothing but smooth emptiness, a void that mirrors the emptiness creeping through my chest.
And yet… in this oppressive gloom, even the faintest thought of a flame, a tiny shard of illumination, becomes a lifeline. My steps forward are cautious, deliberate, each footfall a whisper on the warped wood beneath me. Every sound—my own heartbeat, the faint groan of the boards settling—echoes loudly against the stillness, reminding me that I exist here, that this darkness is not swallowing me whole. It is only around me, pressing, testing, watching.
Cautiously, I move forward, each step measured on the uneven floorboards, which creak beneath my weight like whispered secrets. My heartbeat pounds in rhythm with my movements, echoing in the quiet air. Every subtle sound—the brush of a draft, the distant groan of settling wood—sharpens my senses, leaving me acutely aware of the fragile stillness around me. Each movement feels both deliberate and precarious, as if one misstep could shatter the tenuous balance of the darkened hallway.
Then, as if in answer to my silent pleas, a small patch of light emerges ahead. It begins as a flickering glow, barely discernible against the backdrop of darkness, but gradually it reveals itself, outlining the staircase that spirals downwards into the lower level. A wave of relief washes over me, soothing my frayed nerves. Fixating on the shimmering beacon, I use it as my guide. Each careful step down the staircase is taken with utmost intention; my toes brush lightly against the wooden treads, silencing the creaks that threaten to betray my presence.
Finally, I reach the bottom, and the contrast is immediate, almost jarring. The room before me bursts with brightness, a warm embrace that feels virtually tangible after the suffocating darkness above. A stunning ornate lantern hangs from the ceiling, its intricate frame cradling a contained, flickering glow that casts enchanting shadows across the walls, bringing the space to life. The interplay of light and shadow dances together, creating an atmosphere that feels both alive and welcoming, and I find myself irresistibly drawn to study the mesmerizing patterns it weaves.
Suddenly, Alice's voice pierces the quiet, pulling me sharply back to the present. Her tone is a curious mix of mild exasperation and practicality, grounding me in the reality of what comes next.
You finally come down? Are you stopping having hallucinations?"
"I told you I have no hallucinations."
I reply calmly, though the edge in my voice might have given me away.
Alice remains focused at the small kitchen counter, her hands moving with methodical precision as she prepares dinner. The rich aroma of sautéing vegetables and herbs gradually fills the room, earthy and inviting, intertwining subtly with the lingering scent of old wood and dust that clings to the air. The vibrant life emanating from her cooking stands in stark contrast to the house's stillness, creating a layered atmosphere that feels both lived-in and functional.
I slide a chair back from the rough-hewn table, wincing slightly as the rigid surface presses against my palms. As I settle into the chair, the weight of the day begins to settle heavily on my shoulders and spine, a comforting reminder of the hours I've endured. My gaze drifts upward to the ceiling, where the texture of the weathered wooden beams catches my attention. I notice the slight irregularities—the knots and grooves—that speak of years of craftsmanship and the hands that built them. Each detail grounds me, offering a quiet sense of order in a day that has otherwise been defined by uncertainty.
For a moment, I allow myself to simply observe the scene around me—the delicate interplay of light dancing across the walls, the faint creak of the floorboards underfoot, and the rhythmic cadence of Alice's movements as she stirs the simmering pot. It creates a small, tangible anchor amidst a world that has become increasingly unfamiliar, wrapping me in a cocoon of familiarity and warmth.
«Is that the girl who reminds you of that painful moment in your life? The accident with your parents, I mean.»
A faint, ethereal text materializes beside me, suspended in the soft glow of the blue rectangle, perfectly still against the quiet of the room. I instantly recognize it as the 'system'—a persistent, almost sentient presence that always seems to appear at the most inconvenient moments.
I choose to ignore the rigid expectations of the 'system' this time and allow my gaze to drift up toward the ceiling instead. The wooden beams above aren't perfectly straight; some sag slightly, while others bear the marks of age with old stains and thin cracks that trace delicate patterns like veins. The flickering lantern light below casts shifting shadows across the surface, causing the dark shapes to dance slowly and steadily, creating an almost hypnotic rhythm. It offers a simple focus—something uncomplicated that asks for nothing in return.
Alice enters the scene, setting two plates down onto the table with a gentle clatter. The sound, though light, reverberates in the quiet space, feeling amplified in the stillness. Wisps of steam rise from the food, wafting a warm aroma that fails to penetrate the cold knot of unease resting in the back of my mind. I stay motionless, fixated on the ceiling, allowing my thoughts to drift freely as autumn leaves in the wind.
For a brief moment, Alice pauses, and I catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. I notice the subtle crease in her brow as she registers my lack of attention, but instead of saying anything, she remains silent. She leans over to adjust one of the utensils, the soft scrape of metal against wood echoing gently in the room.
I choose silence in return, allowing my thoughts to wander through a labyrinth of old memories and disjointed fragments that no longer speak to each other. They arrive and depart without any clear pattern, slipping away before I can latch onto them. I let them roam as they wish; it feels simpler than the chaos of trying to organize their tangled web.
The ceiling remains a constant—plain, uneven, but steady—and in this moment, that familiarity serves to keep me anchored. The room is hushed, save for the faint crackle of the lantern above and the subtle sounds of Alice settling into her chair, a soft rustle of fabric as she shifts. I sit in the quiet, letting the silence swell and fill the space around us while my mind struggles to untangle itself at its own unhurried pace.
"Dinner is ready."
She spoke in a calm, even voice, her tone both steady and matter-of-fact, as if delivering important news rather than sharing an opinion. Her demeanor was poised, exuding a sense of unwavering confidence that made her words resonate with clarity.
The rich scent of the food envelops the room, warm and heavy, promising an array of flavors that Alice has managed to conjure up for dinner tonight. Normally, this enticing scent would draw me back to the moment, grounding me at the table with the steam gently rising from the plates. Yet, despite the inviting atmosphere, my mind escapes, slipping away into a jumble of swirling thoughts.
A tempest of questions relentlessly swirls in my mind, creating a chaotic whirlwind where one tumbling inquiry crashes into the next like waves against a rocky shore. There's no escape from this mental storm, and each thought feels like a fragment of a puzzle—intricate and baffling—with no clear path to resolution.
Why am I even here in this vast, unpredictable world? Is this reality or just a fleeting dream? These questions whirl around in my mind like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind, creating a tangled web of confusion and frustration. Each thought blurs into the next, amplifying my sense of disorientation and leaving me feeling adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
As I grapple with these existential ponderings, I cannot shake the feeling of profound isolation, as if I am standing precariously on the edge of a vast abyss, peering into a shadowy unknown that seems to stretch into infinity. The quest for answers feels like embarking on a treacherous journey through an impenetrable fog, where clarity flickers tantalizingly close yet remains perpetually shrouded in the complexities of existence. Each moment spent lost in thought only deepens the chasm of uncertainty, as if the very act of searching for meaning pulls me further away from the light of understanding.
Suddenly, a question pierces through the dense fog of my thoughts—a sharp, unsettling notion that claws at my consciousness: Am I supposed to be the protagonist in this unfolding narrative? It strikes me unexpectedly, like a bolt of lightning, and for a fleeting moment, I consider dismissing it as absurd. Yet, the weight of this inquiry lingers in the air, heavy and oppressive, amplifying the chaos swirling within my mind. Each heartbeat echoes with the uncertainty of my role, leaving me grappling with the uncomfortable realization that I may hold the power to shape the story—not just as a passive observer, but as someone who plays a vital part in the tale's progression.
I blink, trying to pull myself back to reality, and slowly open my eyes. The lantern light flickers above, brighter than I anticipated, and it takes a moment for clarity to sharpen the edges of everything around me. I can see Alice just within the periphery of my vision, busy with her preparations at the table, her figure moving gracefully in the warm light.
For a fleeting instant, time seems to still, the world around me holding its breath. But then, without warning, the chair shifts beneath me.
Before I can brace myself, I find my balance slipping away, my body losing its grip on the seat. I tumble off, hitting the floor with a jarring thud that reverberates through the room louder than I could have imagined. For a second, I'm left sprawled on the ground, staring up at the cool, wooden underside of the table, the air filled with surprise and the lingering warmth of the meal.
I glance toward Alice, our eyes locking. Her expression is a mix of astonishment and concern, her brows furrowing slightly as she tries to comprehend the scene unfolding before her. The practical worry etched on her face only amplifies the absurdity of my fall, a reminder of the unexpected turns this evening has already brought.
"Are you okay, Zin?"
"I'm fine…"
I murmured, my voice a bit unsteady as I wrapped my arms around the back of my head, trying to shield myself from the world around me.
Alice reaches out and helps me back onto my feet, her grip steady. There's no fuss to it; she just makes sure I'm upright before letting go. We stand there for a second, mostly so I can find my balance again, then we head toward the table.
The meal lay before us, a modest spread arranged with almost deliberate neatness on the old wooden table. Its surface was scarred with cuts, stains, and faded rings—marks left behind by years of use, years of people sitting here before us. The lantern hanging overhead sputtered occasionally, its flame swaying inside the glass and throwing shifting bands of light across the room. Every flicker sharpened the outlines of the dishes, making the colors stand out as though they didn't quite belong in the dimness surrounding them.
The aromas were thick in the air—grilled spices mingled with roasted herbs, and underneath it all lingered the earthy scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen fire. It was the kind of food that didn't pretend to be grand, but it was prepared with care; each dish was placed intentionally, nothing rushed or sloppy. Whoever put this together wanted it to be right. Not impressive—just right.
But even with the lantern's warmth and the inviting smell of the meal, something felt off. A wrong note humming beneath the surface. The quiet wasn't peaceful—it was too sharp, too expectant. The room seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for something to crack through the calm.
My eyes drifted across the table again, taking in every small detail—the uneven grain of the wood, the way the steam curled from one dish before thinning into the air, the faint clinking sound as the lantern's metal frame settled from the heat. All of it felt unusually loud, as if the ordinary sounds were trying to fill a space meant for something else.
Even the food, perfectly fine and untouched, sat there under a tension that didn't belong to it. It was supposed to mark the end of a long day, a simple moment of rest. Instead, the entire scene felt caught in a strange stillness, like the world had paused just a few seconds too long.
And deep down, I already sensed it—this quiet wasn't going to last.
The room carried a worn, familiar warmth—nothing polished or extravagant, just the honest kind that settles into a place after years of being lived in. The lantern hanging above gave off a soft, uneven glow, its flame swaying gently with each draft that slipped through the walls. That light spread across the room in slow, stretching shadows, catching on the rough edges of the furniture and the dust worn into the corners. Everything about the space spoke of use, of days stacked quietly on top of one another.
The creaking shelves sagged slightly under the weight of mismatched dishes and old jars—ordinary things, but they gave the room a sense of permanence. The table, scarred with scratches and knife marks, stood solid in the center, as if it had weathered every conversation and every argument this house ever held. Even the faint trace of smoke that clung to the air, impossible to scrub out no matter how many windows were opened, felt like part of the room's identity.
For a brief moment, that atmosphere created a shelter—a place where the noise of the outside world dulled into nothing more than a distant buzz. Here, wrapped in the lantern's glow and surrounded by the familiar clutter, it felt as though nothing could intrude. Time didn't quite stop, but it loosened its grip, slowing just enough to let us sink into the quiet. It was an unspoken pause, a moment where the world seemed willing to let us simply exist without demanding anything in return.
But beneath the calm, a taut thread of unease ran quietly through everything, so faint it was almost easy to ignore. The quiet wasn't empty—it was waiting. The air held a heaviness that didn't match the coziness of the room, a subtle pressure that settled on the back of my mind. It felt as though the house itself was holding its breath, bracing for something that hadn't yet arrived.
The warmth remained, but it was fragile—thin enough that a single sound, the wrong kind of interruption, could tear straight through it.
As we settled into our chairs, the room shifted into a quiet, concentrated stillness—one of those moments where the world seems to wait politely on the other side of the walls. Nothing ceremonial was happening, yet there was an unspoken understanding that the meal in front of us deserved attention. It wasn't about tradition or making the moment special; it was simply the routine of sitting down after a long, uneven day and giving ourselves a brief chance to stop moving. In a place where uncertainty felt like part of the air, this small return to normalcy carried its own kind of weight.
The steaks lay on our plates like sturdy centerpieces, the sear marks catching the lanternlight in clean, deliberate stripes. Their color—deep mahogany, almost reddish in places—promised a solid, grounded flavor. I hesitated for a moment before taking my first bite, partly out of fatigue and partly out of habit. The meat met my teeth with just the right resistance, firm but yielding, the texture speaking for itself without the need for any fancy seasoning or flourish. As the marbling melted with the heat, small bursts of richness spread across my tongue, steady and reassuring. It was the kind of taste that didn't push for attention; it simply was what it was—good, filling, made with care.
For a few minutes, the outside world blurred into nothing more than a faint idea. My thoughts, usually restless, quieted enough for me to focus on the simple act of eating. The warmth from the food spread slowly through my chest, as though reminding me that there were still parts of life that didn't shift or break whenever they felt like it.
When the plate was cleared, my attention moved to the soup beside it. Its surface—a calm, warm orange—seemed to glow softly under the lantern's steady flicker. I dipped my spoon in, and it sank through the creamy broth with an easy glide, brushing against broccoli florets and other vegetables cooked to that practical middle point between soft and firm. Lifting the spoon brought up a blend of steam and aroma—earthy, mild, and comforting straightforwardly. Each sip carried enough weight to settle the stomach and enough warmth to soften the edges of the day.
The lantern overhead hummed faintly, its flame shifting just enough to send small ripples of light across the table. Shadows pressed into the corners of the room, pulsing gently with every flicker. The house creaked now and then, the wood adjusting to the cool air of the evening, but none of the sounds felt intrusive. Together, they formed a quiet backdrop that grounded the space.
As we ate, the atmosphere thickened with a calm that was hard to come by lately—a pocket of stillness carved out from everything unpredictable waiting beyond the front door. I could feel my mind slowly unclenching, my thoughts settling into something steadier. The food wasn't extravagant, the room wasn't grand, but the combination created a moment that felt… anchored. Something you could rely on, even if only for the length of a meal.
"They are good."
"Glad you like it."
Alice replied briefly, her gaze drifting away as she concentrated on her own plate.
As we were finishing our dinner, the clinking of silverware against plates and the warm hum of conversation were suddenly interrupted by a forceful, insistent knock at the door. The sound echoed through the cozy dining room, drawing our attention.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
We both freeze mid-conversation, our attention snapping immediately to the source. The knocking is urgent, deliberate, and echoing faintly against the walls and floor, demanding a response.
Alice rises from her chair with careful movements, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floorboards. Every step is measured, cautious, as if she expects the unexpected. Her hand hovers near the doorknob, not rushing, but ready to act once the door is opened. The room is tense, alert, every sound amplified in the sudden stillness.
Who is visiting at this hour…?
I find myself lost in thought, gripping the edge of my seat as my heart races with anticipation. The soft click of the doorknob echoes in the stillness, and when the door swings open, Arthur steps into view. His disheveled hair clings to his forehead, damp with perspiration, and his cheeks are flushed from what must have been a frantic rush. The wide, darting eyes reflect a mix of urgency and concern, making it clear that whatever news he carries is weighty. The atmosphere thickens with tension as I wait for him to speak, bracing myself for what's to come.
"Arthur?!"
Alice and I both spoke at once, caught off guard by his sudden arrival. Her brows furrowed as she quickly took in the scene. Wordlessly, she moved ahead, letting him follow her lead through the softly lit room, keeping a careful pace to avoid the furniture and uneven floorboards.
Arthur stood before us, clearly out of breath. His hair was tousled, and his clothes were wrinkled, as if he had thrown them on in haste. Lines of worry were etched across his face, and his wide eyes glimmered with a tension that made it impossible to ignore him.
"We have an emergency!"
He gasped for air, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly, his voice strained as he tried to make the urgency clear. Every movement, every look, underscored that whatever had happened had been sudden and pressing, leaving little room for hesitation.
"What?! What's happened?"
Alice and I spoke almost in unison, our voices tight as Arthur's words sank in. Fear prickled along the edges of my mind, a sharp, restless energy that made my chest tighten. We were both on edge, nervous and eager at the same time, straining to anticipate what he might say next.
While Alice waited for Arthur to speak, I stayed seated, my mind churning. Thoughts pressed in from every direction, each one heavier than the last. How serious could this emergency be to make him rush here like this? The questions kept spinning, circling faster the more I tried to make sense of them. I felt myself sinking deeper into my own speculation, bracing for whatever was about to unfold.
What kind of emergency could bring him here at this hour?