The sun peeked through the edges of the tall, winding windows, painting the house in soft gold. Little feet pattered across the wooden floor, a quiet rhythm in a house alive with laughter.
The boy, barely four, clutched a tiny wooden bird in his hands, eyes wide and cautious. Even the smallest sounds—the creak of the stairs, the flapping wings of his pet crow—made him jump. Yet, despite his fear, he couldn't resist poking his head around corners, peeking into every room, following every whisper of movement.
"Don't go near the pantry, little one," his mother called, her voice warm but firm. "The wind has been… strange today."
He nodded vigorously, then tiptoed toward it anyway, curiosity pricking at him sharper than any fear.
And as he reached the doorway, he felt it—a presence that was not him, like a shadow in his mind, soft and cold. A voice? A thought? He didn't know. He froze.
Who's there?
No answer, only a whisper of something he couldn't name, something that made his tiny heart both race and ache. And when he looked back at his brother, the older boy's calm eyes met his, unshaken by the tremor of fear that gripped him. Even at this age, the boy noticed it: his brother seemed… different, even if he didn't yet understand why.
Years ago, before everything changed, the house had been alive with laughter, light, and little secrets only children could notice. And in the quiet corners, hidden inside the boy, something stirred—something that would one day show him the truths the world tried to hide.