Morning came too suddenly, like it forgot to knock.
One minute I was dreaming about a hundred doors whispering secrets, and the next—someone opened the curtains.
Light spilled across my face. I instantly turned away, like a cat avoiding a camera flash.
It wasn't that I saw the light — not the way others did — but I could feel it, like hundreds of tiny invisible hands trying to wake me up.
"Breakfast," someone said.
A voice — calm, steady, like a river that doesn't bother explaining where it's going.
I sat up, blinking at the blur of pale brightness around me. "Are you… the cook?"
He didn't answer.
That's when I realized: it was him. The brother.
The one who had tapped my head like I was a malfunctioning toy.
And now he was standing at the edge of my bed, like a painting that decided to come alive out of boredom.
I could tell by his steps — quiet, measured, but heavy with something that didn't belong to this house.
He said, "You slept late."
I frowned. "No one told me the rules for sleeping early."
A pause. Then I swore I heard the corner of his mouth twitch — just a little.
He walked closer, placed something on the small table near my bed. A tray — though it didn't smell like any breakfast I'd ever known.
The air around it shimmered faintly, and I realized it wasn't food. It was… sound. A quiet hum.
Like a lullaby trapped inside a cup.
I tilted my head. "Did the monk teach you to cook music?"
This time, he really did pause. "…You hear that?"
"Of course," I said, pretending to sound brave. "You're serving invisible pancakes again, aren't you?"
The ghost girl giggled somewhere near the ceiling. But strangely — she didn't float down.
Usually, she'd circle me like a worried balloon, mumbling complaints about "the new tall human."
Today she stayed hidden. Watching.
And that's when I noticed it.
The room itself was quieter when he was here. The walls didn't hum. The floor didn't creak. Even the tiny whispers of unseen things that always followed me… had gone still.
It was like the house itself was afraid to make noise around him.
He said softly, "You shouldn't talk back to them. The ghosts."
My heart jumped. "How do you know I—"
"I know," he said, before I could finish. His tone wasn't angry — just… certain.
"Once you answer them," he added, "they never forget your voice."
The ghost girl's humming turned sharp for a second — a faint hiss, like someone scraping metal.
He turned his head slightly, and the sound vanished.
The way he stood there — calm but untouchable — it hit me that maybe he wasn't afraid of the ghosts at all.
Maybe the ghosts were afraid of him.
"Eat," he said again, stepping back.
I looked at the glowing bowl on the tray, still humming quietly. "What if I don't like sound soup?"
He sighed, turned toward the door. "You'll get used to strange things here."
Then — just as he left the room — I heard him whisper something barely audible.
It wasn't to me.
It was to someone else.
"Stay away from her."
The air turned cold for a heartbeat.
And upstairs, the ghost girl stopped singing.