Chapter 1: The House of Cracks
Rain. It always began with rain.
Kai Zaman Reed Voss dreamt of it again—the shattering of glass, the twisted scream of metal, the sudden silence that only death knows how to conjure. He was a child again, strapped in the backseat of his parents' black sedan, his small palms pressed against the cool leather as his father's voice muttered something about being late. The night was thick with mist. The headlights of an approaching truck cut through the fog like a blade through skin.
Impact. A violent, merciless jolt. His mother's hand flew backward, reaching for him, but the world spun before she touched him. The roar of crushing steel swallowed her face. Blood burst like paint on canvas. The windshield webbed into cracks, each line a sentence in a story that should have never been written.
Kai screamed—though in dreams, sound was devoured. No one heard him, not even himself.
Then came the other memory, the one that never left him in peace: relatives with false grief pasted on their lips, circling him like wolves. "Your father had debts, Kai. You wouldn't understand, but the bank will take everything. Sign this, it will be easier for you." He remembered the ink bleeding across paper, his hand shaking, his voice small. The houses, the cars, the shares, all gone in the hands of men who spoke of "loans" he was sure never existed.
The nightmare always ended the same:
He stood before the old Voss estate, a mansion once glorious, now chained shut by the bank. The doors slammed like coffins. Behind him, his relatives vanished into shadow, taking his name with them. Before him lay only one place—his grandparents' house. Broken, sagging, its walls cracked like the ribs of a dead beast. Rain dripped through its roof, each drop echoing like a curse.
Kai awoke with a jolt.
The sound of rain persisted. Not in memory, but in reality—seeping through the ceiling above his bed, plinking into a rusted bucket he had placed days ago. The smell of mildew clung to the air. He blinked into the darkness of his shabby room, chest heaving, sweat chilling his skin.
Silence pressed in. Only the rain, the slow decay of a house that should have died years ago, remained to greet him.
Kai sat up. His body ached, though he was only twenty-six. He ran a hand through his damp black hair, staring at the faint light seeping through the broken blinds. Another morning. Another repetition. Another day clawed out of the grave life had dug for him.
The house groaned as if it, too, despised existing. Cracks ran like rivers along the plaster, spiders nesting inside their jagged mouths. The wooden floor bowed under his weight when he stood, his bare feet catching splinters. He could almost hear the whispers of his grandparents, long gone, their memories embedded in this ruin.
He dressed quickly: worn jeans, a frayed shirt that had lost its color, boots that leaked when the rain grew bold. The mirror by the door showed him a face that seemed far older than twenty-six. Hollow cheeks. Eyes ringed in sleepless circles. A man not destroyed, but quietly eroded, like a statue left to weather in storms no one bothered to shelter.
Kai worked, ate, slept, and dreamed. That was the cycle. Yet inside, questions festered, gnawing like rats at his soul. He could never silence them.
What is life, if it only takes?
What is death, if it steals without reason?
And God… where was God when the truck came, when the relatives lied, when the bank carved away everything my family built?
He had asked these questions countless times, to empty rooms, to indifferent skies. Each time the silence mocked him. Each time he felt smaller.
But today, as he pulled on his coat and stepped into the dripping hallway of the house, something different stirred in him. It was not an answer, not yet, but a pressure—like the pause before a storm, the stillness of air heavy with unseen electricity.
He paused, hand on the doorknob, and whispered into the silence:
"God… what did I do wrong?"
The question did not vanish this time. It did not echo back hollow.
It lingered, as though the rain itself had stopped to listen.
And for the briefest moment, Kai felt something watching him.
Something vast.
Something waiting.
Kai lingered in bed longer than he should have. His eyes drifted toward the crooked nightstand, where an old digital clock sat stubbornly ticking. The numbers glowed a faint, tired red: 6:42 a.m.
The alarm had long since died—years ago, when a surge during one of the city's blackouts fried its voice. Now it only counted silently, reminding him of hours that slipped away whether he rose to meet them or not.
Kai rubbed at his face, skin rough beneath his palms. He could feel the faint burn of stubble along his jaw. His eyes stung from another restless night. For a while, he simply lay there, watching the clock blink, half-hoping the numbers would stop moving and grant him reprieve. But time, as always, was merciless.
With a sigh, he pushed the thin blanket aside and swung his legs to the floor. The boards groaned under his weight, a creak that traveled through the house like a complaint. The air smelled of damp wood and old plaster, tinged faintly with mold. Rain had seeped deeper into the cracks last night, and he could see faint stains spreading like bruises along the ceiling.
The bucket in the corner was half-full. Each drop that fell struck the water with a small, sharp sound, a rhythm as steady as the clock's silent heartbeat.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
It was a miserable symphony, but one he had grown accustomed to.
He stood, stretching, and winced at the stiffness in his shoulders. His body wasn't ruined, but it felt worn down, as though life had aged him faster than the calendar. He made his way toward the small dresser against the wall, tugging open a drawer that stuck before relenting. Inside lay his few shirts, folded without care. He pulled one free—a faded gray thing—and slipped it over his head.
In the corner of the room sat his boots. Their leather was cracked, soles worn thin. He had patched them twice already, and they would not endure another season. Still, they were what he had, and he shoved his feet into them without hesitation.
The mirror by the door greeted him again. It was cracked at the corner, the fissure running across his reflection like a scar. He paused, studying himself the way he sometimes did, as if hoping to see someone else staring back.
His eyes were the most telling: dark, sunken, carrying a weight no one his age should have borne. Twenty-six, yet he felt closer to fifty. He touched the glass briefly, fingertips brushing the line of the crack.
"You look like hell," he muttered to his reflection.
The reflection did not disagree.
The hallway beyond his bedroom was narrow, lined with peeling wallpaper patterned with faded roses. The air was colder here. A draft slithered through unseen gaps, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth. He passed the door to his grandparents' old bedroom, locked since their deaths. He had never opened it. Not once. Some things, he believed, were better left untouched.
The kitchen was no better. A small window fogged with condensation allowed in a pale light that did little to brighten the room. The counters bore the stains of decades. A kettle rested on the stove, its metal warped with age. Kai filled it with water from the tap—the pipes groaned in protest, sputtering brown before clearing to something drinkable.
He placed the kettle on the burner and struck a match. The flame hissed, catching with a faint blue glow.
As the water heated, he searched the cupboard for food. There wasn't much. A half-empty jar of instant coffee. A stale loaf of bread. A few eggs that were dangerously close to spoiling. He settled for coffee and bread. Breakfast of survivors, not dreamers.
When the kettle finally whistled, he poured the water into a chipped mug, stirring the coffee into a bitter swirl. The first sip burned his tongue, but he welcomed the pain. It reminded him he was alive.
He sat at the small wooden table, the same one his grandparents had once used for family dinners. He remembered laughter here, voices that once filled the house with warmth. Now, only the rain spoke.
Kai chewed slowly on the bread, staring at nothing in particular. His mind wandered—as it often did—to questions that gnawed at him relentlessly.
Why am I still here?
What is the point of living like this, scraping by day after day, for what?
If God exists, why did He strip me bare, leave me in ruins, while others thrive in comfort and ignorance?
He set the mug down and pressed his hands to his face, shutting his eyes. His breath trembled.
"God… what did I do wrong?"
The words came out softer this time, almost broken. He wasn't sure if he expected an answer. He never had before.
But today… there was something.
It was not a voice, not exactly. More like the faintest shift in the air, a stillness that pressed against his skin. For a moment, the house seemed to hold its breath. The rain slowed, or perhaps his perception of it did. The world narrowed to a silence so complete it felt unnatural.
Kai opened his eyes, and for a heartbeat, he thought he saw something.
The shadow of a figure standing at the far end of the hall.
Tall. Still. Watching.
He blinked, and it was gone. The rain returned, the house exhaled, and the silence fractured into ordinary sound once more.
Kai's hands trembled where they rested on the table.
He told himself it was fatigue, nothing more. A trick of the mind, born of too little sleep and too many questions.
But deep down, a shiver took root in his chest.
For the first time, he wondered if something had listened.
The rain had eased by the time Kai stepped outside, though the air remained heavy, the streets slick with its memory. He pulled his coat tighter around him, the fabric thin and fraying at the cuffs. The house loomed behind him as he locked the door—a sagging silhouette against the pale sky, its windows staring like blind eyes.
The yard was little more than mud and weeds. Puddles gathered in the uneven ground, reflecting the gray morning. Kai's boots squelched as he crossed toward the road, and each step left him with the damp chill of water seeping through worn leather.
The neighborhood wasn't much better. Rows of houses lined the cracked pavement, some abandoned, some clinging stubbornly to life. Rusted fences leaned at crooked angles. Paint peeled from walls in tired sheets. The few people who lived here moved quickly, heads down, as though ashamed of being seen.
Kai joined them, though not out of shame. It was habit.
His walk to work took nearly forty minutes. He had once owned a car—his father's—but that, too, had been seized. Now he traveled on foot, cutting through backstreets where the city's wealth never bothered to reach.
The city itself was a contradiction. Towers of glass rose in the distance, gleaming like monuments to progress, while streets like these rotted in their shadow. Kai could see the skyline even from here, sharp and proud, a constant reminder of what he had lost.
His job was on the edge of that gleaming district, close enough to feel its heat, far enough to never be part of it.
By the time he reached the small convenience store, his coat was damp, and the ache in his shoulders had returned. The neon sign above the door flickered uncertainly, buzzing like an insect trapped in glass.
Inside, the store smelled of stale snacks and cleaning chemicals. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright for the narrow aisles. Kai's manager, a short man with thinning hair and a belly that strained against his shirt, sat behind the counter scrolling through his phone.
"You're late," the man muttered without looking up.
"It's seven fifty-nine," Kai replied, checking the clock above the freezer section.
The manager shrugged. "Late enough. Stock the shelves."
Kai bit back his response and moved to the storeroom. He had learned quickly that arguing was pointless. People like his manager weren't interested in fairness. They only wanted someone beneath them to bark at, to remind themselves they mattered.
The boxes were heavy, but Kai carried them without complaint. He moved slowly down the aisles, filling shelves with canned food, instant noodles, bottles of soda. His hands worked mechanically, his mind elsewhere.
Customers trickled in and out. Office workers in pressed suits who didn't look at him. Mothers with children tugging at their sleeves. Teenagers laughing too loudly, leaving candy wrappers where they shouldn't.
No one noticed him.
No one ever did.
It was as though he were part of the shelves, another fixture in a store that people used and forgot.
During his break, he sat in the back room with a paper cup of coffee that tasted like burnt rubber. He stared at the wall, listening to the hum of the refrigerator.
Again, the questions surfaced.
Is this life? Is this all it is?
Work, eat, sleep, repeat—until the body gives up?
If there is a God, does He laugh at this existence? Or is He silent because He does not care?
He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. A dull throb pulsed behind his skull.
And then, just as it had in the kitchen that morning, the world shifted.
The hum of the refrigerator faded. The air thickened. For a moment, Kai felt weightless, as if he were falling and floating at once. He opened his eyes.
The room was the same—yet not.
The fluorescent light above him flickered, and in its pulse, shadows deepened unnaturally. Shapes stretched where they shouldn't. The corners of the room seemed farther away than they had been a heartbeat ago.
On the wall opposite him, letters began to form. Not written, not carved—emerging, as though the plaster itself wished to speak.
He blinked, and they were gone. The hum returned, the shadows retreated.
His coffee had gone cold in his hands.
Kai sat frozen, breath shallow, staring at the blank wall.
"Voss," his manager's voice barked from the front of the store. "Break's over. Move."
Kai rose slowly, setting the cup aside. His legs trembled as he walked back into the aisles. He stocked shelves, scanned items at the register, nodded when spoken to. Outwardly, nothing was wrong.
But inside, something had shifted.
The question was no longer Does God hear me?
It was What, exactly, just heard me?