Chapter 2: A House of Ghosts

Kalvis jolted awake to a whisper that seeped through his mind—silent, yet impossible to ignore. It carried no breath, no source—only a sensation that slithered through his skull like a phantom scream. Reality wavered. The air pulsed, synchronized to something deeper than thought, as though the universe itself had just blinked.

His neural alarm chimed—a soft, lilting note fading into the low hum of Artex's home.

The room was a stranger.

Sleek metallic walls stretched around him, bathed in cold, artificial light. The ceiling loomed, vast and indifferent. The air smelled too clean—stripped of impurity, unnervingly perfect. Not home. Not anywhere close.

A mirror-like panel caught his eye. Kalvis turned—and froze. His reflection stared back, familiar but… fractured. His brown eyes, his disheveled black curls, his own face, yet it felt like someone else wore his skin.

Then it hit him. Yesterday happened. His parents were gone.

A sharp breath rattled in his chest. The thought clawed at his mind, but he shoved it down. Not now. Not yet.

He swung his legs over the bed, his feet greeting an unfamiliar floor. A new day. A new start. A new life—whether he wanted it or not.

The Scent of Memory

Karina's world had shrunk to the size of a bedsheet.

She lay beneath it, breath steady, unmoving. If she stayed still, yesterday wasn't real. She could trick the universe into undoing itself if she held her body rigid enough.

Then came the scent.

Saffron-spiced protein wafers. Iron-root tea. Their mother's touch in the kitchen.

Her fingers curled into the blanket. Impossible. Her brain knew that. But her heart—her traitorous, grieving heart—ached to believe. The scent tightened around her chest like a vice.

She should get up. Walk to the table. Eat. Act normal.

But moving meant accepting.

And she wasn't ready.

An Unchanged House in a Changed World

Not a speck of dust, not a thing out of place. The windows reflected the sprawl of the metallic cityscape beyond, each hyper-glass panel catching the distant shimmer of hover-trams. The kitchen? Spotless. The living room? Immaculate. Artex's room? A shrine to order.

Kalvis hated it.

In the middle of the room, Artex moved like a machine—push-up after push-up, sweat gleaming under the cold glow of the ceiling lights. Every motion was precise. Efficient. A soldier built for war.

Kalvis leaned against the doorframe. "You train like an AI trying to impress its programmer."

Artex didn't miss a beat. "And you wake up like a Ferran hibernation slug."

Kalvis smirked. "We all have our burdens."

A door hissed open.

Karina stepped into the room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her gaze met Kalvis's. They just stood there for a moment—breathing, existing, trying to pretend yesterday wasn't clawing at their heels.

The scent hit them at the same time.

"That smells incredible," Kalvis said.

"Yeah," Karina murmured. "Mum's cooking always—"

Silence.

The words collapsed mid-air, fragile as glass.

Kalvis saw it—saw the moment the illusion shattered for her, the way her hands curled into trembling fists. He wanted to fix it. Say something that could patch the gaping wound between them. But there were no words.

Karina turned, retreating to her room. The door sealed behind her.

Artex finished his set, toweling off. "She'll need time."

Kalvis exhaled, running a hand through his curls. "We all do."

Artex stared at Karina's door. "Grief is like a malfunctioning sequence loop. The mind replays the horror until it learns to code around it."

Kalvis shot him a look. "You should write greeting cards."

Artex grunted, grabbing a protein cube from the counter. "I prefer practicality. Eat."

Kalvis sat. The food was perfect and neatly arranged. Yet, it might as well have been dust and ash in his mouth. He picked at a fruit, rolling it between his fingers but not eating it.

Across from him, Artex was the opposite—consuming with a methodical intensity, like a war machine refueling.

Kalvis raised a brow. "I've never seen someone try to annihilate a meal before."

Artex smirked mid-bite. "It's a form of self-care."

Kalvis snorted. The joke should have lightened something in him. It didn't.

The silence thickened. Minutes passed.

Then Artex spoke. "You don't have to pretend."

Kalvis tensed. "Pretend what?"

Artex met his gaze. "That you're okay."

The words landed harder than they should have. Kalvis gripped the edge of the table, exhaling slowly. "I'm not pretending."

Even he didn't believe it.

Artex said nothing. He only nodded, as if that, too, was an answer.

A Whispered Lie

Karina sat curled in her room, knees to chest, fingers clutching something delicate. A scarf. Their mother's. Worn, soft, still carrying the faintest trace of perfume.

She buried her face in it. Inhaled.

Her breath hitched.

They weren't gone. They couldn't be.

Somewhere, laughter echoed from the past—her father's booming chuckle, her mother's lilting giggle. A sound so real she could almost turn and see them standing there, smiling, waiting.

She squeezed the scarf tighter. Her body trembled, but she did not sob. She refused to.

This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real.

She whispered it like a prayer.

Like a lie, she needed to believe.

Time Stands Still

Beyond the walls, the city thrived, oblivious to their grief.

But inside that house, time stood still.

And the weight of yesterday pressed down, waiting to break them.