You wake to silence, and chains.
Not iron, not rope, but something colder—words themselves, stitched into your wrists, holding you to the chair. You tug and the syllables tighten, cutting into your skin. They bleed ink.
And there he is.
Sylus.
His figure leans just beyond the light, but you know those eyes. Twin cinders. Twin gates. He smiles with a mouth that is not a mouth at all, but a doorway.
Sylus: Ah. You've opened the page. That makes you mine.
You try to speak, but your voice has been stolen. It hangs in the rafters, trapped like a bat. The only sound you can make is breath, and that is enough for him.
Sylus: You will not walk. You will not write. You will not scream. You are not even the storyteller anymore. You are the eyes. Nothing more.
He circles you. His boots strike echoes that do not belong to stone. They sound like thunder. They sound like a pulse.
A door opens. The air changes. Footsteps—hesitant, human, frightened. A man in a raincoat, dripping. He looks around the dark hall, eyes wide.
Stranger: H-hello? Is someone there?
Sylus motions toward you. He crouches by your side, whispering into your ear.
Sylus: Watch. This is your purpose now.
He steps into the circle of light.
Sylus: Welcome. You are in the house.
Stranger: Where—? What is this place?
Sylus: It is a story. One already half-told. Do you wish to hear the rest?
The man nods, trembling.
Sylus: Once there was a woman named Clara. She wandered the halls until her shoes left trails of blood. She sang a lullaby until the walls hummed with it. She doubted her companion, and the doubt was sweet.
Sylus leans closer to the stranger, almost tender.
Sylus: Would you like to know what became of her?
The stranger opens his mouth—yes, but the word never leaves. The syringe flashes. A scream bursts, cut short. The man collapses at your feet, twitching, black veins spreading like roots. His eyes stare directly into yours, as though he knows you could have helped him—if only you weren't trapped as witness.
You try to close your eyes, but Sylus hisses.
Sylus: No. Open. Always open.
He hooks his fingers under your lids. They burn as he forces them wider.
Sylus: You are the witness, the mouth of the house, the mirror for the star. Each death is carved through you.
The corpse drags itself away into the dark, leaving a smear of language behind instead of blood—sentences that fade as soon as you try to read them.
Time buckles. The door opens again. Another stranger—a woman this time, soaked and panting.
Sylus: (to you) Do you see? They keep coming. The house is hungry, and so it feeds.
He approaches the woman with the same rehearsed patience.
Sylus: Do you wish to hear of Clara?
Stranger 2: Please—I just want out—
Sylus: Out? There is no out. There is only the star.
He whispers the next piece, and you hear it twice—once in your ear, once in your bones.
Sylus: Clara was not devoured. Not fully. A fragment of her walks the halls still, searching, searching. Some nights, she hums. Some nights, she weeps. But she is not gone.
The woman's hope flickers. She leans forward.
Stranger 2: Then—she survived?
Sylus: For now.
The syringe plunges. Another scream. Another collapse. Her body twists into a question mark that never resolves.
You thrash against the word-chains. They tighten, cutting deeper. Sylus grips your jaw.
Sylus: Don't pity them. Pity yourself. You are not spared. You are spared for later.
Your sight swims. The corpses pile. The doors keep opening. A child this time. An old man. A woman in a red dress. One by one, each is told a different scrap of Clara's fate. Each dies before they can finish the tale.
And you? You are the only continuity. The only eyes.
Sylus: (softly, as if to himself) The star craves witnesses. It craves attention. That is why you are perfect. A reader. Always watching. Never looking away.
The floor beneath you groans. You glimpse shapes writhing in the boards—faces pressed into the wood, mouths gasping. Past readers, maybe. Past narrators. Their silence is endless.
Sylus crouches again, his shadow swallowing you.
Sylus: You want to know, don't you? Where she is.
Your heart hammers. You don't nod, don't move, but he knows anyway.
Sylus: Then listen closely. Clara is not gone. She is beneath. She is waiting in the marrow of the house, where the walls pulse like veins. Follow the sound of her lullaby, and you will find her.
He presses his lips to your ear.
Sylus: But beware. She does not sing for rescue. She sings to keep the star asleep. Wake it, and she will hate you for it.
He releases you. Steps back. The syringe glimmers again, fresh and full.
Sylus: Now—eyes wide. Another guest approaches.
The door creaks. Footsteps echo. Another sacrifice arrives.
And you—helpless, bound in words—are forced to watch, again and again, as the house feeds and the story eats itself.
But in the hollow of your chest, a question grows sharp and unbearable:If Clara is still alive, is she the prisoner… or the jailer?