He woke up to the soft creak of the ceiling beams.
No sound beyond that — only silence, thick and old.
His eyes opened slowly.
Above him, the slanted attic ceiling loomed, streaked with cracked beams and cold light piercing through the thin gaps.
The air was motionless, stale — filled with floating dust, gently spinning in thin rays of morning.
He didn't blink.
He didn't move.
Beneath him was a sunken mattress, too thin, too used, lying directly on the wooden floor.
Around him — the still silhouettes of old boxes, a broken lampshade, a coiled rope sleeping in the corner like a silent question.
Everything felt distant.
Or perhaps… too familiar?
He didn't know.
His breath was shallow. Not tired — just... blank.
A single thought passed through him like a ripple in still water:
Who am I?
But the thought faded.
Like dust.
Like everything else.
He blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling, until something inside him moved.
He sat up.
Not because he wanted to — but because something told him it was time.
His body felt unused. Like waking from a sleep that had lasted longer than it should.
His legs tingled. Numb.
His arms hung loosely, lifeless.
He looked down at his hands.
Then at the floor.
The silence was loud.
He glanced to the side — the rope.
Still there.
Still coiled.
The boxes watched.
The lamp was still broken.
Nothing had changed.
He hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He stared at the floorboards, eyes unfocused.
No memories came.
Only a heaviness inside his chest — as if something had been lost there long ago and never returned.
Time passed — but nothing changed.
Finally, his body moved again.
Knees shifted.
Palms pressed to the ground.
He crawled forward slightly, and sat again.
Then he turned his head.
His eyes stopped on the wooden hatch embedded in the floor.
There it was — a square of darker wood, with a simple handle.
He looked at it.
Said nothing.
Then a murmur:
"Hm."
His face was calm, but distant.
He didn't look afraid — just not present.
What's there?
The thought passed through him with the same weightlessness as before.
Still, he reached forward, slowly.
His fingers found the handle.
He paused.
The dust on the wood clung to his fingers.
And then — he opened it.
---
The hatch groaned as he pulled it open.
The air beneath was no warmer. No brighter.
Only darker.
He stared into the black square cut into the floor — as if it might stare back.
Then his body moved again.
He got up slowly, knees clicking, bones stiff from stillness.
There was no rush, and yet… he moved like he was late for something.
As if time below moved differently. Faster. Closer to endings.
The rope behind him remained untouched.
Coiled. Waiting.
He placed one foot on the top step.
Bare skin met cold, aged wood — slightly soft from years of absorbing silence.
Then the second foot.
The wood creaked beneath him.
One step.
Another.
He held the railing. It trembled faintly under his touch.
Was it him — or the house?
Each step down felt quieter than it should've.
Like he wasn't making sound.
Or like the house was used to these sounds, and no longer reacted.
A faint warmth drifted up toward him — the kind that came not from comfort, but from habit.
The smell followed soon after.
Fried eggs. Toast.
Simple. Familiar.
Too familiar.
The light at the base of the stairway was dim — the kind that soaks into the wood instead of reflecting off it.
He turned the corner.
The corridor was narrow, long.
Wood-paneled walls closed in like ribs.
Everything was silent.
Then a shape at the far end:
A glow through a half-open door.
Steam.
A plate.
Movement.
He walked forward.
No fear. No curiosity.
Only movement.
Only necessity.
The kitchen waited like a memory, poorly remembered.
A shadow on the wallpaper.
A dead plant on the windowsill.
A worn table, empty.
Then—
A voice.
Soft.
Warm.
Almost… human.
— "Son, are you hungry?"
He stopped.
He didn't breathe.
The words floated toward him, gentle but too sharp.
Too placed.
Like they'd been spoken before.
I guess I'm her son, he thought.
But he didn't know her.
She knew him.
He could feel it in the way the question had landed — not like a real question, but like a line spoken in a play he hadn't rehearsed.
He didn't step inside.
Didn't look at her.
His voice escaped him.
Flat. Barely audible.
— "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."
Silence returned.
But it felt heavier now.
As if the house had been waiting for that answer.
---
He sat by the window again.
The attic felt even quieter now, though nothing had changed.
Same cracked beams above. Same walls.
Same dust floating like ghosts.
He looked out through the small, dusty window.
The glass was cold and uneven.
Outside — the pale gray of morning.
Rows of rooftops. A narrow road that bent and vanished into trees.
Nothing moved.
What if I'm gone?
Hm… do I even exist?
No emotion.
Just thought.
Just emptiness shaped like reflection.
He kept staring.
The world beyond the glass was still.
Too still.
As if it had already forgotten him.
The world didn't notice.
It keeps going.
It just keeps going.
He closed his eyes.
Not in pain.
Not in peace.
Just tired.
Then he opened them again.
And turned.
The rope was still there in the corner.
He rose slowly.
No hesitation.
No pause.
Each step across the attic felt too familiar — like walking the grooves worn by someone else's feet.
His own?
He took the rope.
Fingers moved without thought.
The knot tied itself.
He dragged over the old crate.
Placed it beneath the beam.
He stood on it.
The air felt no different.
No colder.
No heavier.
Even now.
He placed the loop around his neck.
It lay there — soft, rough, real.
The light through the window touched his face, but did not warm it.
His eyes were calm.
Mouth still.
Heart — silent.
He stepped forward.
The crate tipped with a dull thud.
---
A melody, distant — as if coming from the bottom of a well.
"No, thank you… I'm not hungry…"
The words tremble.
And fade.
And fade.
And fade.