Klein Moretti woke up at exactly six o'clock.
He did not need to check the time.
There was no alarm, no habitual sense formed by repetition. The knowledge was already there, complete and unquestioned, as though the moment of waking had been scheduled by something more reliable than a clock.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling.
The ceiling was clean.
Not clean in the sense of being recently washed or carefully maintained, but clean in a way that felt deliberate. As if dust had been accounted for and rejected. As if imperfection had been considered unnecessary.
Klein blinked.
Light filled the room evenly. It did not collect beneath the window, nor did it thin near the corners. The space under the desk was just as bright as the space beside the door. Even the narrow gap between the wardrobe and the wall was fully illuminated.
There were no shadows.
The realization formed slowly, cautiously, like a thought that knew it might be unwelcome.
Klein sat up.
The blanket slid down his chest.
The movement was ordinary, familiar—but midway through it, Klein felt something brush past him. It was not a touch. It was pressure, faint and transient, like a hand hovering just above the skin.
The sensation vanished the moment he stopped moving.
He frowned slightly.
That's odd.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. The wooden boards were cool, smooth, and perfectly level. When he shifted his weight, the floor creaked.
The sound was sharp.
Clear.
Final.
Klein froze.
Something unseen settled behind his eyes.
It did not hurt.
It did not threaten.
It simply waited.
Two seconds passed.
Then the pressure lifted, leaving behind a faint chill that lingered longer than it should have.
Klein exhaled slowly.
Only then did he realize he had been holding his breath.
"…Strange," he muttered.
The moment the word left his mouth, the air seemed to tighten.
Klein's pupils shrank.
The pressure returned—stronger this time—spreading outward, brushing against the furniture, the walls, the closed door. It felt as though the room itself had leaned closer, listening.
Klein swallowed.
"…Strange," he repeated, more quietly.
The pressure eased.
His expression darkened.
"Words" he thought.
It reacted to the words.
Klein stood and walked to the washstand.
The mirror above it was spotless, free of streaks or fog. His reflection stared back at him calmly.
Black hair, slightly disheveled. Brown eyes carrying faint fatigue. A thin face that belonged to someone accustomed to paperwork and late nights.
An ordinary face.
Yet the longer Klein looked, the stronger a subtle discomfort grew.
The reflection was too precise.
When he tilted his head, it followed without delay. When he blinked, it blinked at the same instant—not a fraction of a second later, but exactly together, as though correcting for a mistake that had never occurred.
Klein stepped back.
The feeling vanished immediately.
He washed his face in silence, dried his hands, and changed his clothes with deliberate care, avoiding unnecessary movement and, more importantly, unnecessary speech.
When he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, he paused.
The corridor was bright.
Bright enough that the corners were visible.
Bright enough that nothing hid.
At the far end of the hall, the landlord's cat sat upright, tail wrapped neatly around its paws. It stared directly at Klein, unblinking.
As Klein passed, the cat opened its mouth.
"I don't like you," it said.
Klein stopped.
The cat closed its mouth and began licking its paw.
No one else reacted.
The hallway remained quiet.
After several seconds, Klein laughed softly.
"…Right," he said.
This time, nothing reacted.
But as he descended the stairs and stepped out into the street, Klein felt it clearly.
The world was listening.
And it cared very much about what was said.