Tuesday morning, 8:55 AM.
The telephone rang loud and sudden, slicing through the sleepy silence of the Myers House's living room.
Its shrill echo bounced off the walls — a sound as cold and mechanical as the house it came from.
Madam Rowena, the housekeeper and oldest staff of the house, entered the room slowly, her thin frame gliding across the hardwood floor like a shadow. Her charcoal gown that stopped above her knees highlighted her slender figure as she walked. Her wiry hair — mostly dark but streaked with stubborn lines of white — was wrapped into a tight bun that tugged at her wrinkled face. She looked half like a relic and half like a statue—permanent and watchful.
She reached the phone and pressed the receiver to her ear. "Hello?"
Her voice was calm. Mild. Almost disconnected. After a few seconds of listening.
"Alright sir ."
Then her eyes moved upward as if searching for something beyond the ceiling. Her lips parted, and she pressed a palm gently over the receiver before calling in that eerie voice of hers:
"Mr Kant!."
Upstairs, Kant surprisingly heard her. Her voice always found its way, even when it didn't rise above normal volume. He sighed, adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and made his way down the steps.
He looked ready for school — his T-shirt hugging his upper body frame, above his dark jeans, and his blue sneakers clean. But his hair betrayed the morning rush — slightly tousled and wild, like he'd only run his fingers through it once and gave up trying.
When he reached the last step, Madam Rowena held out the phone to him without a smile. "Your father," she said with quiet finality.
Kant blinked. His father? At this time?
He took the receiver. "Thanks."
She nodded once and walked off, ghost-like as always.
"Hello?" Kant pressed the phone to his ear.
"Kant," his father's voice came through, deep and composed. "How are you, son?"
"I'm fine," Kant replied, already waiting for the next line.
"And your sister?"
"She's still upstairs, getting ready."
"Ah," the Mayor chuckled softly. "Would've loved to hear her voice too. But I've only got a few minutes."
Kant smirked faintly. It was always 'a few minutes.'
"I'll let her know you called," he said.
"Good," his father responded. "I hope you two haven't been giving Madam Rowena a hard time."
Kant narrowed his eyes. "No, sir. We're doing well. Everything's fine."
Madam Rowena was never close enough or stood in one place for anyone in the house to give her a hard time as she moved like one who didn't have all the time in the world and looked utterly unwelcoming.
"Good to hear. She has always been good at her job and you both won't have a single problem."
Kant didn't argue. That part was true — she was efficient, methodical. He would give her credit for that. Besides that, she seemed like someone who lacked emotions and was programmed to act, talk and move a certain way. Still, he said what his father needed to hear.
"Yes. She's good at her job."
A pause.
"You both still remember our safety rules, I hope?" the Mayor asked, tone slipping into something more solemn.
"Yeah," Kant said. His voice was clipped, restrained.
How could they forget? The rules were drilled into their heads like gospel since middle school— the rules on how they got involved in certain outings, approached certain places in the town, the minimum amount of friends they could keep and people they were to interact with. Most importantly, Don't ask questions.
Rules that made no real sense — unless you believed your house was a vault and your life something that needed guarding.
It was very confusing to Kant as he didn't understand why their dad was imposing this rules on them as if he was guarding them from something.
"Those rules are there for a reason, son," his father added, almost like he sensed the hesitation. "You and your sister have a responsibility, more than you understand."
Kant didn't respond. He just nodded silently. Maybe his father could see that through the static.
"If you need anything," the Mayor continued, "I mean, anything at all. Rowena is at your service."
"Okay."
There was some muffled talking in the background on the Mayor's end — a voice calling to him, something about a meeting.
"I've gotta go now," his father said hurriedly. "I'll call again soon, alright? I love you both very much."
"Okay."
"Goodbye, Son."
"Bye. Dad"
The line went dead. Kant stared at the receiver for a second before returning it to the cradle. He already knew what "soon" meant — it could be days, weeks. The last time it was almost a month. You learned to stop checking the clock for someone who lived by a different one.
The stairs creaked.
Marin appeared, rushing down the steps as she tied her hair upwards, her backpack swinging behind her. She was dressed neat and ready in a pink floral dress, her face still half-caught in the yawn of morning.
"Who was that?" she asked as she passed him.
Kant tilted his head. "Dad."
Her mouth made a small O shape, then she nodded and walked past without another word.
He had waited for a reply but maybe her silence was valid enough — it was always the same. Routine greetings, instructions wrapped in affection, rules repeated like lullabies.
Kant followed her to the dining room in silence, the house around them falling back into its still, silent rhythm.