Chapter 3
"Man, in his pride, created his fellow men in his image and likeness; however, creation always escapes the hands of the creator."**Historical Archive 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕪 𝕊𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕪, year 1831 — Record No. FRK-014//ΔΣЖл✖⌁▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
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Chapter 3: Silences and Awakenings
Pov. Eva.
Eva woke slowly, feeling the strange weight of a body she still didn't fully recognize. She looked around for a moment and then sighed softly; disappointment shone imperceptibly in her eyes.
"...he's not... coming..." she said in a hoarse, inexperienced voice.
She was talking about Victor. It had been three days since she last saw him.
During those days, she remained alone, with no news from him. He didn't approach her or speak to her again. Her studies also stopped, and she even left the door open.
His absence was a cold wall that isolated her, that made her feel even more broken.
The mansion remained plunged in a dense silence, permeated by a calm that wasn't peace, but abandonment. No one spoke. No one cried. No one looked for her.
After remaining lost in thought for a few moments, Eva finally got out of bed and went out into the hallway.
With Victor gone and no longer restricted, she began to explore more of the mansion, which seemed to embody an air of history and mystery.
She continued through the hallways until a half-open door caught her attention.
She carefully pushed open the door and entered a dusty, dimly lit room. The air smelled of old paper and damp wood. Along the walls, a bookcase lined with books stretched from one end to the other, with volumes of varying sizes and colors, some with pages yellowed with age.
Her trembling fingers ran along the spines, pausing on a few titles that were inexplicable to her.
She picked up a book at random, Essays on Nature and Life, and began to leaf through it.
The words formed sentences that, for the most part, she couldn't understand. She pursed her breasts and squeezed her eyes shut. But there were others that seemed to evoke an echo within her, as if she'd heard them before in dreams or vague memories.
While she was absorbed in her reading, the door opened softly and a figure entered: a young woman in a simple dress who began cleaning without looking at her.
Eva watched her silently, feeling a mixture of curiosity and strangeness. It wasn't the first time she'd seen her, but it was the first time they'd been so close to each other.
The last few times, she'd seen her from a distance or had entered her room bringing something for Victor's studies before quickly leaving. They didn't exchange words on either occasion.
Then a pang struck her, and a new memory manifested:
The same brightly lit room as before, and a figure sitting across from her—the same older, warm woman—who smiled sweetly.
"When you meet someone, darling, you say 'hello' first and then your name. That's how they'll know who you are." She hugged and gently kissed her head.
The memory faded as quickly as it had come, but the emotion lingered like a breeze.
Eva lowered her gaze for a second... but she wasn't completely discouraged.
Clumsily, she sat up a little more, as if her body was responding to the instinct engraved in her memory.
"H-hello?"She said in a shaky, hoarse voice.
She extended a stiff hand, her fingers tense, and said with effort:.
"My... name... Eva..."
The woman paused for a moment, barely a second, and only then looked up. She didn't shake her hand. But her gaze met Eva's, without hostility or interest, simply... functional.
"Lea," she finally said, emotionless, and returned to her work.
Eva felt a warm sensation in her chest, but it faded as soon as she fixed her gaze on the "person" in front of her.
She frowned, sensing there was something off about her, something she didn't quite understand.
Did she seem too... perfect?
Or maybe it was the way she moved: effortlessly, without hesitation, with... an efficiency that didn't seem human, almost like a puppet simply following a routine millimeter by millimeter.
There was no light in her eyes.
There was no light in her eyes.
It was as if she weren't alive, but imitating life.
As if she weren't...
"Are you... human?" she asked, almost in a whisper, doubt trembling in her voice. She felt the question made no sense... and yet, on some level, it seemed the most appropriate one.
The woman paused for a moment. Then she turned to Eva and, with a small, refined bow, said,
"I'm sorry, Master Victor instructed me not to answer your questions."
"If you'll excuse me, I must continue my work," she added evenly, and without waiting for a reply, she turned again and walked down the corridor.
Eva watched her disappear, feeling a spark of bewilderment and loneliness. But also... a question that wouldn't go away.
A persistent doubt, one that had begun as a pang but now burned like embers.
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Days passed.
Eva never spoke to the maid again. Not because she didn't want to, but because she didn't know how.
Lea appeared and disappeared like a neat shadow, leaving no trace.
Sometimes she saw her pass by the end of a hallway, other times she left a room just as Eva entered. As if she knew when she was near and took the best route to avoid her.
Perhaps that should have depressed her.
And yet... something inside her began to stir. A restlessness, a need she couldn't name. It wasn't fear, or pain. It was something different.
Something similar to when she had first opened one of the books and understood a word. As if Lea's existence was also a forgotten key.
Eva began to follow her.
Not openly, nor with clear intentions. Rather, as a curious animal would: from a distance, silently, with soft steps.
She didn't know why she did it. Maybe because Lea was the only thing moving in a dead house. Maybe because she had responded. Because she had a name. Or because... was she different?
He followed her with a mixture of fascination and longing, like a lost dog who has found a familiar shadow and can't separate himself from it.
He kept watching her: every stroke she made with the duster, every delicate gesture as she arranged the objects, every solitary bow as she left an empty room.
If Lea entered a room, Eva would pause in front of the half-open door. If Lea bent down to tidy a shelf, Eva would peer around a corner, watching her hands perform the movements with almost unnatural precision.
She didn't understand the purpose of many of these tasks, but... she found them hypnotic.
The woman never reprimanded her. At first, she didn't even look at her.
But that changed.
One day, while polishing a bedroom window, Lea paused.
She didn't look directly at Eva, but her eyes lingered on the window for a second longer than usual. And although her face didn't soften, her posture—for a moment—lost its rigidity.
As if she had accepted a change of pace.
She began to return a few brief, subtle, and almost imperceptible glances, as if this strange creature were challenging her indifference.
Sometimes, when Eva stopped to watch her, Lea would look away slightly, but without moving too far, as if something inside her was beginning to recognize Eva's presence.
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One morning—or what she thought was morning—she found Lea in the great hall of the west wing, shaking out thick curtains that smelled of dust and confinement.
Eva watched her from the threshold. She hesitated. And this time, she took a step forward.
Lea didn't turn around.
Eva swallowed, though her throat wasn't dry.
"...can I... help?"
The word "help" seemed strange coming from her mouth. As if she'd picked it up from a very high shelf.
Lea paused for a moment, but didn't turn around.
"The master gave me no instructions about sharing tasks," she said, her voice soft, neutral, without judgment or emotion.
"It... doesn't matter," Eva replied, more quietly. She took another step.
Lea shook the curtain again, unperturbed. Eva lowered her gaze.
But she didn't leave.
She stood for a while, silent. Then she took a few steps closer and clumsily tried to imitate her: she lifted the other curtain and shook it with both hands. She did it wrong. Dust fell on her face. She coughed.
Lea glanced sideways. Just for a second. Then she went back to her task.
Eva didn't speak again that day.
But when she finished coughing, she smiled.
A little.
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Another day, another hallway.
This time, he followed her to the south end of the mansion, where the smell of damp earth and green leaves seeped through the cracks in an old double door. Lea pushed a leaf open with her shoulder and entered without turning around.
Eva followed, almost glued to her steps.
The greenhouse was a living place. The air was warmer, thick with moisture, and vibrated with the buzzing of small insects.
Plants with broad leaves and twisted stems grew in rows of pots, climbed metal frames, or hung from the ceiling in nets of thread.
Eva stopped in her tracks, dazzled by the explosion of colors. Flowers of impossible hues—bright reds, cool blues, dark purples—danced lightly in the breeze.
It was beautiful.
She leaned toward a small bush with leaves that had a strange, dark sheen that captured her attention. She reached out. She wanted to touch it.
Her clumsy hand almost touched the leaves, but just before her fingers touched them, a soft voice stopped her without looking up.
"Don't touch that. It's Aconitum napellus, poisonous."
Eva stepped back, surprised. She didn't quite understand the word, but she felt the weight of the warning.
"Poisonous... poison... bad..." she thought, frowning as her fingers moved away from the bush.
A pang ran through her mind, and a memory manifested:
Her brother's (¿brother?)cheerful voice, with childlike enthusiasm, telling her about a book he'd read about poisonous plants.
"You know! Aconitum is deadly if you touch it carelessly, but some cultures used it to make antidotes," he said, with a wide smile and eyes shining as if it were a fun fact.
She—her past self—let out a nervous, somewhat scared laugh.
Her brother sometimes had strange tastes.
"That's not funny," her mother said sternly from the kitchen.
Her brother complained that it was just a comment, and she let out a laugh—amused? Joyful?
Yes, that day was a hap—
The thought was cut off before it could fully form.
The scene vanished like smoke. Eva blinked. She lowered her hand, thoughtful.
Lea continued cleaning just as calmly, without haste or condescension.
However...
When he passed her with a watering can, he paused only for a moment.
"If you want to see interesting plants or flowers..." he murmured, without turning around completely, "the ones over there aren't dangerous."
And she nodded to a corner of the greenhouse. There, under a skylight, small white and purple daffodils grew.
Eva approached slowly. She knelt beside them.
She spent long minutes observing.
She didn't think about Victor. Not about his strange body. Not even about the loneliness.
Only about the petals. Their softness. Their faint scent.
For the first time since waking up in that broken, alien world, she felt something resembling... peace.
Eva gave a soft, calm smile, and, unseen by her, Lea mirrored her actions behind her.
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They left the greenhouse after Lea finished her work there.
For the rest of the day, Eva followed Lea at a shorter distance than before and continued observing her every small movement, her every silent gesture, trying to understand what it was about her that she still didn't fully understand.
It was something simple and strange: a routine that seemed empty, but also safe.
That night, upon returning to her room, Eva lay down on the worn mattress. She closed her eyes, and a warm feeling settled in her chest.
"Happy... yes, happy, is the word," she thought, surprised by the clarity of that feeling.
This life... is still false, she thought. But... it's not... just... pain.
A faint smile appeared on her lips as sleep embraced her, calming her doubts and the distant echo of loneliness.
That night, only peaceful and happy dreams occupied her mind.
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Pov. Third Person.
The study door closed behind Lea with a soft click.
Victor Frankenstein didn't look up. He stood motionless in front of the floating glass monitor, where a blurry image slowly dissipated between traces of magical light.
"Report," he ordered, his voice a cold blade.
The homunculus, Lea, knelt with the precision of a well-calibrated machine. Her movements were neat, without intent or emotion.
"During this week, she's continued to watch me," she said. "Every day, at different times, she appears in the hallways, in the rooms where I clean, even near the greenhouse."
Victor said nothing.
"She hasn't been aggressive. She hasn't tried to touch me. She just looks at me. Sometimes she imitates me. She's followed me around almost the entire house, except for the sealed areas."
Victor narrowed his eyes. A slight twitch ran across the corner of his eyelid.
"And your evaluation?"
Lea lowered her gaze briefly, just for a moment.
"...Childlike behavior. Curious. It doesn't pose a threat. But... she's persistent. She seems motivated."
"Motivated?" Victor sounded intrigued.
"She doesn't seem to be obeying a purely mechanical impulse," he replied. "She watches me. She analyzes me. She changes her behavior. It doesn't happen by chance."
Victor finally looked away from the glass. He walked slowly toward the desk, where a stack of papers was marked by the moisture from a forgotten glass. His fingers closed around the rim with silent strength.
"Did she speak to you again?"
"No, not since she introduced herself that first day. Since then, she hasn't spoken another word. Just... look." He hesitated for a moment, then finally spoke. "That day she introduced herself as... Eva."
Silence.
A faint creak arose from the desk's wood as he pressed one of its corners with his fingers.
"Anything else?"
"Nothing, it just followed me. Like a dog... or a small child."
Victor took a deep breath. Very slowly. He crossed his arms behind his back and turned his back on the homunculus.
Yes, homunculus. A being created through alchemy, in this case, to perform the mundane tasks of his household. With a concept of artificial life similar to Eve's, but different... very different.
"You may leave."
Lea stood up, gave a perfect curtsy—impeccable in its unnatural formality—and left without another sound.
The room fell into darkness. The faint crackle of the glass going out was the last thing to break the silence.
Victor was left alone, as always. He looked at his distorted reflection in the surface of the black glass.
"You shouldn't be learning that," he whispered. A statement directed at no one. Or at himself.
His fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear. From anger.
Or maybe it was from fear, but the kind only gods feel when their creatures begin to think for themselves.
Although he no longer considered her a mere beast, she was still far, far away from that "Eve" he once believed he could mold.
A pang crossed his temple. He raised his hand to his face, breathing deeply, as if something invisible were crushing his skull from within.
Just tiredness, he told himself.
But in the silence that surrounded him, that excuse rang hollower than ever.
End of Chapter 3
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Here's chapter 3. I hope everyone who reads it enjoys it, and as always, I'm open to criticism or comments. Okay, bye. 👍