The dim yellow glow of the single lamp in the living room cast long shadows against the cream-painted walls. Kant stood near the house telephone stand, fingers hovering over the coiled cord as though it were a lifeline he couldn't quite bring himself to grasp. His gaze kept flicking toward the receiver, an internal tug-of-war playing out behind his eyes.
The thought of calling Sylan again had been eating at him all evening. For the past several weeks, since the night of the accident and the visit to the hospital, his mind had been knotted in restless worry. He could still picture the flashing red lights of the ambulance and the metallic tang of blood lingering in the air.
When he had gone to pay him a visit at the hospital, he had primarily confirmed that Sylan would be alright with his girlfriend, but that didn't erase the image burned into Kant's memory — Sylan's pale face, bandaged forehead and his round eyes that spoke volumes than his body could.
Sylan's voice from that day in the hospital still echoed faintly in Kant's head: "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
He'd said it with an impassive face, the kind meant to hide pain, but Kant knew better. People only said things like that when they didn't want anyone to see through them.
He reached out, his fingertips brushing the cool plastic of the receiver… then stopped. No. Not again. He had already tried to shake this off multiple times tonight, forcing himself to believe Sylan didn't want the intrusion. Still, the phone stood there like an accusation, daring him to disobey the promise he'd made to leave Sylan alone.
With a small sigh, he let the receiver rest back in its cradle. He straightened up, his eyes drifting toward the ticking wall clock above the doorway. The second hand swept by with a relentless, mechanical rhythm, reminding him of the time.
7:50 PM.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his feet to move away from the phone. The steam from the mug he'd left on the low table had thinned to wisps, curling upward before disappearing. He picked it up, feeling the warmth seeping into his palms, and made his way into the kitchen.
The kitchen was dim except for the faint light from a small bulb above the sink, casting the tiled floor in a muted amber hue. He set the mug on the counter, pulled out one of the stools, and sat down. The tea was strong — a little too strong — but it would serve its purpose. He lifted the mug, letting the heat linger against his lips before taking a slow sip.
He had promised Marin earlier that he would cover for her. No questions asked. In the event Madam Rowena decided to check in, he was to make sure she believed Marin was safely tucked away in her room. It wasn't the first time they had done something like this, but it was quite a long time since they did and probably this was the first time they'd done it on a Saturday night, when Madam Rowena was usually more alert.
Normally, the older woman kept to herself after the day's chores and duties. She had a routine — disappear into her upstairs bedroom after dinner, occasionally making brief rounds to check on them. She wasn't unkind, but she had the air of someone who always suspected trouble could be lurking just around the corner. Tonight, though, Kant counted on her retreating upstairs early and staying there.
But that wasn't what happened.
From the kitchen, he heard the faint creak of the stairs — slow, deliberate steps descending from the upper floor. He stilled, his hand freezing midway to his lips.
He was surprised to see Madam Rowena emerge from upstairs tonight, her footsteps steady and cautious on the staircase. Finally, she got to the foot of the stairs and walked to the kitchen entrance.
"Mr Kant," she said, her voice soft but edged with something observant, "do you need anything before bed? " She asked, voice carrying that gentle but firm undertone that hinted he should already be on his way to sleep.
He set the mug down and straightened. "I'm fine, Madam Rowena. I'll be heading to my room soon. Just finishing the tea I made."
Her eyes drifted toward the mug in his hand, scrutinizing it as though to verify that was indeed the reason and not something else. The pause lasted only a second, but it stretched in his mind. Finally, she gave a short nod.
"Very well," she said. Then, with a faint tilt of her head, she added, "I suppose Miss Marin is already asleep in her room?"
It was posed like a statement, but her tone betrayed the expectation of an answer.
"Yes," Kant replied smoothly, forcing an easy smile. "She was tired tonight. Went to bed early."
That much was true — she had gone to her room… but only to sneak out shortly after. He had made sure the path was clear, had even timed it so the creak in the floorboards outside her door wouldn't alert anyone.
Madam Rowena tilted her head slightly. "Odd… she usually stays up later on weekends. Is she feeling alright?"
Kant shrugged lightly. "Junior year has been wearing her out lately. It's a lot of school work. I told her she should take this weekend to rest."
"I see…" Her voice trailed off, though her eyes remained fixed on him. She studied him a moment longer, as though weighing the honesty of his words against the uneasy in her gut.
"She's fine. Just needed some sleep," Kant added, keeping his voice steady.
After a beat, Madam Rowena gave another nod. "Alright then. Good night, Mr Kant."
"Good night, Madam Rowena" he replied, watching as she turned away.
Her footsteps were unhurried, each one muffled by the carpeted hall as she made her way back toward the staircase. He listened intently, every fiber of him attuned to the fading sound — one step, two steps, the slight groan of the wooden banister as she ascended. Then silence, followed by the distant click of a bedroom door shutting upstairs.
Only then did Kant exhale, leaning forward slightly on the stool. He took another sip of tea, the bitterness settling on his tongue. His eyes drifted again to the wall clock in the living room.
7:58 PM.
The second hand moved with infuriating slowness. The tea, he decided, was going to be his alibi. If Madam Rowena came down again, he could claim he was still finishing it. That meant he had to make it last — stretch each mug into a drawn-out performance of sipping, swirling, and refilling.
He glanced toward the kettle he'd left on the back burner earlier, relieved to see it was still nearly full. Enough to keep him here for another hour, maybe more. That was all the time Marin needed — she'd promised she'd be back before nine.
But nine felt like a lifetime away.
As he drank, the quiet of the house pressed in on him. The hum of the refrigerator was loud in the stillness, punctuated only by the faint ticking from the living room. Every small sound — the clink of ceramic against the countertop seemed amplified, feeding the slow-building tension in his chest.
He kept imagining the worst: Marin not returning on time, Madam Rowena deciding to check her room, the front door creaking at the exact wrong moment. He pictured himself standing here, caught mid-lie, unable to explain why his sister's bed was empty.
The tea had gone lukewarm, but he drank it anyway, his eyes flicking from the mug to the hallway and back again.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
8:07 PM. The seconds dragged. His grip on the mug tightened.
Pouring another mug, he tried to steady himself. This was fine. He had done things like this before. All he had to do was hold out until nine.
And yet, the unease wouldn't leave him.