Isaac returned home for the first time since the funeral.
The rain was falling lightly, soaking the pavement in silence, as if the sky was mourning with him in its own way. He stood before the wooden door, the key trembling between his fingers, though his hands appeared steady. He wasn't sure if it was the cold—or the hollow ache that had settled in his chest for days.
He inserted the key. The door creaked as always… but this time, it sounded like it was in pain.
"This house doesn't feel the same," he muttered.
"It hasn't changed," Eric's voice replied calmly. "But you have."
He ignored the comment—or tried to—and stepped inside.
The first thing that struck him was the dust… but not normal dust. It was thick, suffocating, as if time itself had choked here. Everything was in place—the furniture, the photographs, the rug—but something felt... disturbed. Not like someone had entered, but as if invisible memories had shifted from their usual places.
In the living room, a book lay open on the table. His father had always been strict about books; he never left any outside the shelf. Isaac approached it. The pages were frayed, the margins filled with scribbles that didn't resemble his father's or his mother's handwriting. He looked at the title—nothing extraordinary: "The Natural Philosophy of Strange Phenomena."
"Did someone leave it here?"
"Maybe. Or maybe… someone wanted you to see it."
Eric's voice was closer this time, as if he was standing right beside him.
A shiver ran down Isaac's spine. He didn't respond. He closed the book gently and took it with him, not knowing why. Perhaps curiosity. Or instinct. An instinct he'd never learned to trust—but today, he had nothing else.
In the kitchen, he found a broken cup by the sink. Half of it submerged in stagnant water. His mother hated leaving anything unwashed. This cup... wasn't here before the incident. At least, that's what he believed.
"Do you think someone entered the house?"
"No. Not someone…" Eric paused. "Something. Something that left a trace, like a shadow leaves a mark in a dark room."
Isaac opened the window, gazing out at the grey sky, the light rain, the silent street. Everything seemed normal. And yet—it wasn't.
That evening, Isaac sat in his room. The light was dim, the curtains tightly drawn. In front of him: a blank notebook, a white page challenging him to start over. On the bed lay the book he had found downstairs. He hadn't opened it yet. He was waiting for the right moment.
A long silence filled the room, broken only by Eric's voice—this time more serious, more present:
"Isaac... we have to decide. How long will you keep doing this? Breathing in the trauma and swallowing it quietly?"
He didn't answer immediately. He stared at the blank page. Then replied softly:
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"What I need to do now."
"Finally…!" Eric said with a smile that could be heard, even without a face. "And what have you come up with?"
Isaac closed the notebook and stood slowly. He walked to the window and opened it just slightly. A cold night breeze crept in.
"I want to know why they died. Who did it. And what made this crime… not ordinary."
"And if you find out?"
"Then I'll decide."
He paused for a few seconds before adding:
"I'm not seeking revenge… not yet, at least. I'm seeking understanding. The context of the crime. That strange aura surrounding it."
"Smarter than I expected," Eric murmured. "But you won't find answers in police reports or autopsies. There's something deeper. Something carefully hidden."
"Is that why you're here?"
"Part of me, yes. I'm a reflection. An echo of what hasn't been said. And maybe…" Eric's voice lowered. "Maybe I'm the key."
Isaac stared into the darkness, his expression unreadable, but it was clear he was beginning to believe this conversation wasn't just in his head.
"Do you know something I don't?"
"Not everything. But… I remember what you don't want to. And I feel what you're afraid to face. Like you, I ask questions—but I'm not shackled by fear the way you are."
Isaac sat on the bed and finally opened the book, skimming the table of contents.
"Power, cults, ancient rituals… what is this?"
"It's the first line on the map. We're not just hunting a killer—we're unraveling a network. A hidden pattern. Your parents' murder isn't the beginning. And it won't be the end."
Isaac closed the book slowly and said:
"Then let's start with the map."
The next morning, Isaac woke up before his alarm. His sleep had been restless, filled with foggy images of faceless people, and whispers echoing his name down stone alleys he didn't recognize.
He sat in bed, motionless for several minutes, staring at the bare ceiling like he was waiting for an answer from the void.
Then came Eric's voice—quiet as a water droplet falling into a deep well:
"Are you sure you want to go?"
Isaac didn't respond. He stood silently and went to his wardrobe. He put on his school uniform, which suddenly felt foreign. It no longer reflected anything of who he was. Dark fabric, a grey waistcoat with tiny metal buttons, and a black tie bearing the Royal Academy for General Talents' motto: "Order brings light."
As he passed by his father's dusty desk in the hallway, he glanced briefly at a neglected family photo… then left.
The street to school was familiar, but the city felt different.
People moved like living statues. Horse-drawn carts adorned with guild crests, coal smoke rising from narrow brick windows, and the voice of a newspaper vendor shouting:
"New incident at the industrial docks! Five missing! Shadow Government denies involvement!"
That stopped him for a moment. "Shadow Government"—a phrase spoken only in hushed tones on the streets of Colaber. The adults denied it. The children feared it. The police ignored it.
But Eric said coldly:
"It's not a coincidence… A city like this breeds shadows."
He reached the school after a long, silent walk. The heavy iron gate opened automatically, triggered by the old guard Mr. Rotman, who stood like a broken Roman statue.
Isaac glanced at him briefly. Eric whispered:
"He's not what he seems…"
Inside the school yard, students stood in small clusters. Whispering. Stifled laughs. Quick glances.
No one really knew how to deal with a tragedy like Isaac's. But of course, they were all ready to talk about it.
In the southern corner stood three of the "elites"—children of officers and wealthy merchants:
Leonard Ashford, always smug.Helena Daven, a girl with stark white hair who spoke as if reading from a book.And Theodore Wright, always silent—but made you feel like he saw more than you wanted him to.
All of them looked at Isaac as he entered. Their gazes held no pity—only judgment.
He headed toward class. Just before reaching the door, a familiar voice called out:
"Isaac… I didn't know you'd be coming today."
He turned and saw Clara Vallin, his classmate from analytical literature. She wore the same uniform, but differently—hair tied neatly, small round glasses, and the ever-present book in her left hand.
But what caught his attention was something in her eyes… not sadness, but curiosity.
"I didn't know either," he replied casually.
"If this feels like the wrong place to be… I understand."
"Maybe it's the only place where I don't feel like I'm constantly at a funeral."
She smiled faintly, then asked:
"Did they tell you who did it?"
The question was direct. But he wasn't surprised.
"They said it was a robbery gone wrong. A random incident."
"Do you believe them?"
He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head.
"No."
He entered the classroom. Mr. Morgan stood at the front—a thin man who always wore a dark coat that smelled of varnish and ink. His gaze was heavy, but he didn't talk much.
"Ah, Mr. Crawford… your return is early," he said without sympathy—only assessment.
"Education doesn't wait for death," Isaac replied, the room falling into a heavy silence.
He sat at his usual seat by the window. Clara sat behind him.
During the first minutes of the lesson, he didn't hear a word. He was watching the students—their movements, their glances, their murmurs—and that tiny dark spot at the top of the blackboard that he'd never noticed before.
Eric's voice returned after a long silence:
"She knows something. Watch her."
"Clara?"
"She asks too many questions. Her gaze isn't like the others'. Maybe she's connected… or maybe she suspects."
During the break, he sat in the small garden behind the east wing. The place was nearly deserted, visited only by those who preferred shadow and silence.
Clara sat beside him.
"Do you know anything about the eastern district of the city?" she asked suddenly.
"You mean the old area?"
"Yes. There was an incident there a week ago. It's… similar to what happened to you."
He looked at her with sudden interest.
"How do you know that?"
"My uncle works at the Central Documentation Office. I can't say much… but I think there's a pattern."
Isaac realized something he hadn't before. Clara wasn't just a classmate. There were deeper motives.
He stood up before anything more could be said. But as he walked away, he spoke quietly:
"If there's a pattern, I'll find it. Whatever it takes."
And Eric whispered in his mind:
"And the pattern… will lead us to the shadows."
Isaac returned home under a gray sky heavy with the scent of rain and dust.Crown Hill Street was eerily quiet, as if the entire city was holding its breath. His footsteps echoed steadily against the damp pavement, but his mind was far from still.
"Did you notice the small crack in the wall near the school's back fence?" Eric asked in a calm tone, like tossing a pebble into a still pond.
"Yeah… and also the guard who wasn't there this morning but suddenly appeared at dismissal. And that strange smell on the third floor."
Eric nodded inwardly, pleased with the observation."The world doesn't hide itself, Isaac. It just buries itself in the details."
He entered the house and shut the door behind him, letting the heavy silence embrace him once more. He sat at the small wooden table in the kitchen. Before him, a lukewarm cup of tea sat untouched since morning.He pulled out a brown leather notebook that once belonged to his father and began jotting down every observation from the day.
"Meeting Ms. Greta… she trembled slightly when she spoke about my parents. She said the police confirmed it was just a botched robbery. But she didn't say it naturally. It was like she was repeating something rehearsed."
"Which means…" Eric whispered, "we have our first clue—someone's trying to control the narrative."
Isaac paused, pencil between his fingers. He stared into space, then suddenly asked:"Do you think the one who did it… knew me?"
There was silence, before Eric replied:"I think the one who did it… knew your father. And maybe… wanted you to see."
A small shiver ran through Isaac. It wasn't fear that struck him—but that deep hunger to understand, the kind that burns slow from the inside.
Then, just as he was about to turn a new page in the notebook, there came a faint knock on the window.
He turned swiftly. The curtains trembled slightly. He rose, walked slowly, and opened the window…
There was no one.Just a small piece of paper on the outer ledge, soaked with rain.
He picked it up.
The message, written in strange handwriting, read:"Ask about the rituals. And watch the shadows of the altar."
"Eric…" he said, voice tight.
"Here we go." the voice inside replied.
He sat again—only now, with a different look on his face. A decision had begun to take root.
"We need a plan."
"A plan to investigate?"
"A plan to understand… and then to confront. And we'll start exactly where they don't want us to: with the questions no one dares ask."
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