The morning rose softly, painting the horizon in pale shades of gold and tender blue. The hush of dawn slowly gave way to the songs of sparrows, their melodies threading through the stillness like a gentle choir announcing the day's awakening. Leaves stirred lightly in the breeze, carrying with them the crisp coolness of new light.
At her window, Elyora pressed her hand against the frame. Metal slid against metal with a low grind, a shiver of steel that echoed like drawn blades. The sound carried — cold, unyielding, the voice of iron yielding only to her will. Slowly, the pane shifted aside, and the morning entered.
The air swept inside — cool, edged with dew, carrying with it the fragrance of soil still wet with darkness. She closed her eyes, letting the chill brush her skin, a reminder that the world was vast and alive beyond her walls.
As the sparrows sang in harmony, a memory suddenly flashed in her mind. It was loud and cheerful, screams filled with praise until…
She suddenly went on a hiatus.
In truth, behind the stage, something else had begun to awaken within her — something she could no longer ignore. It began subtly: a faint vibration in her chest whenever she sang, a shiver in the air that made nearby glass hum. Then came the accidents — speakers bursting mid-performance, lights flickering, the stage itself trembling beneath her feet whenever she reached a high note. At times, she could even see it — her own body faintly cloaked in a shimmering aura, as if her song had given form to something unseen.
Her voice, once a gift that captivated millions, had become something dangerous. A single note could fracture the world around her — a melody that warped sound into raw force. Microphones shattered, instruments cracked, even walls quivered as though recoiling from her tone.
Elyora had tried to hide it — to silence herself and vanish from the noise of the world. After announcing her hiatus, she withdrew from everything she once knew, hoping that distance might quiet the ache within her.
It was then she met a mysterious lady — narcissistic yet calm, graceful, and strangely perceptive — who offered her a place to stay, a home where her mind could find transparency once more. Through her, Elyora discovered the mansion: a secluded haven surrounded by trees and silence, far removed from the stage lights and restless crowds. She came seeking fresh air and stillness, a place untouched by the clamor of the life she had left behind.
But the power she carried refused to sleep. It pulsed beneath her every breath, whispering to be heard again.
---
From her window, she noticed a young man in a maroon hoodie and a black face mask moving quietly through the grounds below. His presence alone drew her gaze, subtle yet undeniable, like a note that lingers after the music has stopped.
He followed the path that bordered the mansion with a relaxed but deliberate stride, as though the ground itself remembered his steps. In his hands, he carried a basket of fresh eggs, their pale shells standing in gentle contrast against the muted hues of morning—fragile light against the quiet weight of dawn.
Beside him padded a small creature unlike any she had seen before. It seemed caught somewhere between a raccoon and a cat—its fur a soft, dark golden fawn that carried a muted warmth beneath the morning light. Dark grey socks marked its paws, while faint catlike stripes traced along its tail.
Yet it behaved like a dog, circling the young man's feet and glancing up at him now and then, as though awaiting a command.
What drew her eyes even more was the medium-sized robot behind him. Its polished, brownish frame absorbed the morning light rather than reflecting it, giving it a muted, matte sheen. It carried two baskets filled with freshly picked fruits and vegetables, moving with a steady, mechanical grace.
From their appearance and the direction they came, it seemed they had just returned from the farm. The scent of grass and damp earth still clung faintly to them, carried in the air like a trace of the land they had left behind.
It had been a couple days since Elyora came to the mansion. Days passed softly there — unhurried, almost distant, as though time itself moved with gentler steps. Among the few who shared this quiet refuge, one young man, in particular, seemed to draw her attention more than the rest.
Unlike the people she had encountered, the young man never spared her even a single glance, only occasionally—not out of intent, but by chance—acknowledging her presence in passing. There was no hostility in it, nor warmth; only a quiet distance, as if his thoughts wandered somewhere far beyond the walls they shared.
What made him all the more difficult to read was that she had never truly seen his face. Thick, silky jet-black hair fell over his eyes like a drawn curtain, broken by a single striking streak of gold that caught the light whenever he moved. Beneath it rested a black face mask, concealing whatever expression might have lingered there. The few fragments left visible revealed nothing. His face remained hidden—veiled in shadow, hair, and silence alike—as though he carried an unspoken desire to remain unseen.
And somehow, that very indifference—paired with the mystery he wore so effortlessly—stirred her curiosity more than kindness ever could.
---
Later that morning, after finishing her usual exercise routine, Elyora stepped out of the bathroom. Her hair was already dry, and her skin felt cool from the shower. The air outside was crisp, carrying faint traces of soap and steam that drifted out behind her.
The atmosphere around her was quiet yet alive. Every surface gleamed softly under the filtered light — the polished floors, the clean walls, the faint scent of wax and wood lingering in the air. Though old, the mansion carried a gentle grace, a sense of time preserved. Its cleanliness was maintained through the quiet diligence of the triplets, the maids and caretakers of the mansion, and the aid of several floating, rectangular robots called P-Pobs.
These P-Pobs drifted soundlessly through the halls, each about the size of a backpack, their bodies traced with faint, glowing lines that pulsed softly like veins of light. Watching them, Elyora couldn't help but feel a quiet admiration for their craftsmanship — for the mind that had given them form and motion.
It was indeed too advanced — far beyond anything she imagined could exist in a place so old, so quiet. There was a kind of grace in their design, something that felt otherworldly.
She had heard that these P-Pobs and all the other robots that could be seen in the mansion were the creation of the young man, a fact that only deepened her curiosity about him.
Elyora had first met him upon her arrival at the mansion. Aside from the landlady, no one really knew much about him. To everyone else, he was simply addressed as "G". At first, she had thought of him as a little strange or "weirdo" — his quiet demeanor and hidden face giving him an air of mystery that felt almost unsettling.