Something was changing. And deep down, Marco knew this morning was only the beginning.
The dining room was bathed in muted gold, the kind of morning light that made the old wooden furniture gleam faintly yet left long shadows in the corners. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching the beams of sunlight that spilled through the tall windows. Everything looked as it always did , elegant, refined, perfectly arranged. Yet Marco felt something was off. The air felt heavier.
His father, Frederick Le Fairfax, sat at the head of the table, his newspaper spread open, humming a cheerful tune under his breath. His mother, Mae, stood by the counter, pouring freshly brewed coffee into porcelain cups trimmed with gold. The aroma filled the room, rich and warm, but Marco barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere , on the dream, on the strange vision of that vast, colorless system made of glass.
He tried to shake it off, focusing instead on the comforting normalcy of his parents' morning routine.
"Good morning, Marco," Mae said with a soft smile, her tone both elegant and commanding. "You're unusually quiet today. Didn't sleep well?"
Marco hesitated before answering. "Just… strange dreams, Mother."
Frederick looked up from his paper, his blue eyes bright with amusement. "Dreams again, son? You've been having quite a few lately. Maybe you should try reading less before bed , all those science journals and mystery novels can do strange things to the mind."
Marco smiled faintly, not wanting to worry them. "Maybe you're right, Father."
He sat down and began to cut his pancakes. The knife scraped against the porcelain plate with a sharp, echoing sound that made him flinch. It shouldn't have been that loud. He froze, glancing at the walls. For a moment, he thought he heard something underneath that sound , a faint whisper, almost human, but stretched thin like a breeze slipping through cracks.
His hand trembled slightly as he lowered his utensils.
"Marco?" Mae's voice broke his trance. "Is something the matter?"
He blinked. "No, Mother. I just… thought I heard something."
Frederick chuckled. "Probably the wind. The old house tends to make strange noises in the morning. I told the staff to have the windows checked."
Marco nodded, but inside, he knew it wasn't the wind. It was different , deliberate, rhythmic, as if it wanted to be heard. He could almost make out syllables, faint but persistent, like someone speaking from behind a thick wall of glass.
He forced himself to eat, though every bite felt like sand in his mouth. The whispers faded for a moment, replaced by the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle rustle of his father's newspaper. For a brief second, he convinced himself he had imagined it.
Then, it came again.
"Marco…"
His name , clear as day this time, spoken in a voice that was neither male nor female, but cold and distant. His fork slipped from his hand, clattering onto the plate.
Frederick looked up instantly. "Everything alright, son?"
Marco nodded quickly. "Y-Yes, I just lost my grip." He forced a small laugh, but his voice cracked.
Mae exchanged a quick glance with Frederick. Her tone softened. "If you're not feeling well, dear, perhaps you should rest. You look pale."
Marco stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I'm fine. I just need some air."
Before either of them could respond, he turned and left the dining room, the heavy oak door creaking softly as it shut behind him.
The hallway outside was dim and silent. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock echoed through the space, steady and haunting. Marco walked slowly, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, his heart pounding in his chest.
He stopped near the staircase where the morning light filtered faintly through the stained glass window. The colors bled across the walls , reds, blues, and golds , yet even the light felt unnerving now. He could still hear it , the faint whisper, threading through the silence.
"Marco... can you hear us?"
His breath hitched. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice trembling.
No answer. Only the soft hum of the air through the vents.
He took another step forward. The whisper grew louder, as though the house itself was breathing ,the floorboards groaning under invisible weight. He turned toward the hallway that led to the library. The door at the end stood slightly ajar. It wasn't supposed to be.
Marco's pulse quickened. He could swear he had closed it last night.
He approached slowly, the floor creaking underfoot. The faint smell of old books and candle wax grew stronger as he neared. The whisper seemed to come from inside , a steady rhythm, almost like chanting but broken and distorted.
He hesitated before pushing the door open.
The library greeted him with its usual coldness. Tall shelves of ancient books lined the walls, the curtains half-drawn. Dust motes danced lazily in the light. But something was wrong. The massive mirror on the far wall , an heirloom from generations past ,shimmered faintly, though no light should have been hitting it.
Marco stared at it, frozen.
The glass rippled.
It was subtle, but unmistakable , like the surface of a pond disturbed by a drop of water. He stepped closer, his breath shallow. As he reached out a trembling hand, the reflection wavered again, and for a split second, he didn't see himself.
He saw the system.
That same massive, colorless structure from his dream ,made of glass, stretching endlessly, pulsing faintly with light. And in its center, something dark moved, coiling and shifting, whispering in voices that blended into one.
Marco stumbled backward, knocking over a small stack of books. The sound shattered the trance, and when he looked again, the mirror was still. His pale reflection stared back , eyes wide, chest heaving.
"What is happening to me?" he whispered.
The whispers were gone now, replaced by the distant sound of footsteps ,his mother calling from the hall.
"Marco? Are you in there?"
He glanced back at the mirror one last time. For an instant, he thought he saw it again , a faint outline, like a shadow behind the glass. Watching him.
"Y-Yes, Mother," he called back quickly, trying to steady his voice. "I was just looking for a book."
Mae's voice softened from behind the door. "Breakfast is getting cold. Don't stay up here too long."
He waited until her footsteps faded away before exhaling shakily. He turned back toward the mirror. It reflected only him now, fragile and uncertain. But deep down, Marco knew that whatever he had seen wasn't his imagination.
The whispers had found him. And somehow, they were connected to that system.
He pressed his trembling hand against the mirror's surface. It was cool to the touch, perfectly smooth. But beneath it, he could feel it a faint vibration, like a heartbeat.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, casting light over the Fairfax manor.
Inside, the shadows deepened quiet, patient, waiting.
And Marco knew: breakfast was only the beginning.