The morning came with gray clouds and a cool breeze drifting through the half-open window. Aiden had breakfast — just toast and instant coffee — before glancing around the living room and sighing.
"Still a mess," he said to himself.
The more he worked on the house, the more he realized how much it needed fixing. The floorboards groaned every few steps, the walls had small cracks, and the air still carried a faint musty smell that refused to go away.
He spent most of the morning tightening hinges, hammering nails, and trying to make the place feel like home. By noon, sweat clung to his neck and his arms ached. He looked toward the basement door.
The one part of the house he hadn't properly finished sorting out.
"Guess that's next," he muttered, grabbing his toolbox.
The basement was as gloomy as ever. The single light bulb hung low from the ceiling, flickering slightly as he turned it on. Dust coated the shelves and old boxes, and the air felt colder than the rest of the house.
He stepped down carefully, boots echoing on the stone floor. The smell of old wood, oil, and something faintly metallic filled the air.
His eyes drifted to the large painting at the far end of the room — the one that had caught his attention the day he moved in. It leaned against the wall exactly where he'd left it, the faint image of that strange man with dark hair and golden eyes still visible beneath a thin layer of dust.
He hesitated, then turned away. He'd already wasted enough time staring at that painting. It was beautiful, yes, but something about it made him uneasy — like the man in it was watching him every time he came down here.
He decided to focus on the other side of the room instead, clearing out old junk and shifting furniture around to make more space for his writing supplies. He wanted to use the basement as a small workspace eventually, maybe even set up a table or a shelf.
He found some old boxes, pushed them aside, and tried to move a heavy cabinet. The thing didn't budge at first. He braced himself, grunted, and pushed harder.
That was when he felt a sharp sting in his hand.
"Ah, damn—!" He pulled back quickly, noticing a thin scratch across his palm where the rough wood had caught him. A drop of blood slid down, warm and bright against his skin.
He reached for a rag to wipe it, but in the same motion, his hand brushed against the edge of the painting behind him. The blood smeared across the surface in a faint streak — right over the chest of the man in the portrait.
Aiden froze, realizing what he'd done.
"Great," he muttered. "Now I'm bleeding on priceless art. Perfect."
He dabbed at it with the rag, trying to clean it up, but the blood seemed to soak into the canvas instead of wiping off. He frowned, leaned closer, and for a second — just a second — he thought he saw the faintest shimmer where the drop had fallen.
The air in the basement shifted.
It was subtle, but the hairs on his arms stood on end. The flickering light bulb dimmed for a heartbeat before returning to normal. The air grew heavier — like the room had taken a deep breath.
Aiden stood perfectly still.
"...Hello?"
No answer.
The silence was so thick he could hear his own heartbeat echoing in his ears.
He shook his head, forcing a laugh. "Okay. You're tired, Aiden. You've been working all day, that's all."
He packed up his tools, trying not to look at the painting again. But as he turned away, he thought he heard the faintest sound — a whisper, low and smooth, like someone breathing close to his ear.
He spun around.
Nothing. Just the painting, still and silent, its golden eyes staring out of the shadows.
"...Yeah, definitely getting out of here," he muttered, quickly heading up the stairs.
He closed the basement door firmly behind him and leaned against it, trying to steady his breath. The quiet house suddenly felt too quiet — like it was holding its breath with him.
"Probably just the wind," he said under his breath.
But deep down, something told him it wasn't.