"Some secrets don't hide. They watch."
The morning seemed brighter. But the mansion didn't.
Marcos walked through the corridors like someone expecting to be followed. The radio was off, the journal tucked away, but the feeling of being watched hadn't left.
The stairs creaked less. Or maybe they were just pretending.
In the living room, Clara was cleaning the floor with short, careful strokes, as if afraid to wake the secrets. The butler arranged books no one ever read. Arthur was absent—or hiding somewhere where sarcasm didn't need to be worn like armor.
Marcos stopped in front of the patriarch's portrait. The eyes were stern. The smile missing. That same expression of someone who sees everything and says nothing.
"This house has eyes," he murmured. "And they don't blink."
Clara looked up, startled.
"Sir?"
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Or maybe too quietly."
He walked to the study. The door was ajar. The same room where the heir had been found. The teacup still rested on the arm of the sofa. Untouched. As if waiting for someone to return.
Marcos approached the bookshelf. Ran his fingers along the spines. Stopped at an old volume. Pulled it out. Behind it—a small camera. Hidden. Pointed at the sofa.
"Bingo."
He called the butler.
"This yours?"
The butler paled.
"No, sir. I've never seen it."
"Someone has. And someone recorded."
Marcos picked up the camera. Small. Discreet. But still on.
"Is there footage?"
"I don't know, sir."
"You're about to."
He took the camera to the living room. Connected it to the laptop he carried in his briefcase. The screen lit up. Short videos. Recent dates.
Marcos clicked. The study appeared. The heir, seated. Alone. Then Rubens entered. The argument began. No sound. But the gestures said enough.
Rubens pointed. The heir backed away. Rubens left. The heir stayed. Picked up the teacup. Looked at it. Didn't drink. Leaned against the sofa. Closed his eyes.
Marcos paused the video.
"He didn't drink. But someone wanted it to look like he did."
Clara stepped closer.
"This was yesterday?"
"Yes. And it's what the house saw. Now… let's find out who knew it was watching."
Marcos turned to the butler.
"Who installed this?"
"I… I don't know. I swear."
"Then someone here is watching the story before it happens."
He looked at the screen. The heir, unmoving. The teacup untouched. The silence, heavy.
"This house has eyes. And now… it has evidence."
Marcos watched the video for the third time. Every gesture, every glance. The heir seemed to know something was wrong. But he didn't react. As if he were already tired of fighting the invisible.
Arthur entered the room without knocking.
"You're obsessed."
"I'm curious. And being too curious is almost dangerous, isn't it?"
Arthur stepped closer. Looked at the screen. Furrowed his brow.
"This was yesterday?"
"Yes. And no one knew that camera existed. Or pretended not to."
Arthur crossed his arms.
"You think it was someone in the house?"
"Someone who knew where to hide it. And what to wait for."
Marcos paused the video. Looked at Arthur.
"Tell me about Rubens."
Arthur hesitated.
"What about him?"
"All I know is that he exists. Brother of the patriarch. Uncle of the heir. And he vanished."
"He left. Before everything happened."
"To where?"
"No one knows. Not even me."
"You're his son."
"And that doesn't come with GPS."
Marcos stood up.
"He left without warning?"
"Yes. Just left the room empty. Didn't even take everything."
"And you didn't find that strange?"
"I did. But here, strange is routine."
Marcos walked down the hallway. Stopped in front of the locked bedroom door. The doorknob was cold. The key, missing.
But there were marks on the floor. Footprints. Recent.
He crouched down. Examined them. One was smaller. As if someone had entered… and never left.
Marcos stood. Looked at the door.
"If this house has eyes… maybe the room has memory."
Arthur stepped closer.
"He went in there. The heir. The night before."
"And did he come out different?"
"He came out silent. And afraid."
Marcos looked at the door. Then at Arthur.
"And Rubens? Did he know his nephew was afraid?"
"If he did, he never said. If he didn't… maybe that's why he left."
"Or maybe it was something else."
Arthur fell silent. And the silence said more than any answer could.
Marcos was rummaging through Rubens' room. Not out of curiosity—but out of necessity. The kind of necessity that comes when everything feels too staged.
The wardrobe was half open. Some clothes missing. A folder tossed on the floor. Nothing that screamed "escape." But nothing that whispered "be right back," either.
He opened the folder. Old documents. Certificates, receipts, an unsent letter. Addressed to the patriarch. Handwritten. Ink smudged. Emotion restrained.
"I should've been more present. But you always made it seem like you didn't need anyone. Maybe I believed that too much."
Marcos closed the letter. Thought for a moment.
Guilt is a cheap perfume. Everyone wears it, but no one admits it.
Arthur appeared at the door.
"Breaking into rooms now?"
"Investigating. But thanks for calling it breaking in. Adds a bit of flair."
Arthur stepped inside, leaned against the bookshelf.
"What are you hoping to find? A treasure map? A note saying 'gone to die quietly'?"
"Maybe just a reason. Or a mistake. I like mistakes. They speak louder than confessions."
Arthur smiled.
"You're more cynical than you look."
"And you're more Rubens' son than you admit."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Was that a compliment?"
"It was an observation. And maybe a warning."
Arthur moved toward the bed. Looked down at the floor.
"He left without saying a word. Not to me. Not to anyone. Just vanished."
"And you didn't go after him?"
"I thought maybe he needed to disappear. Sometimes disappearing is the only way not to explode."
Marcos looked at Arthur. Then at the letter.
"He felt guilty. About his brother. Maybe about you. Maybe about everything."
"Guilt's easy. Doing something with it—that's the hard part."
Marcos stood.
"You know more than you say."
"And you say more than you know."
Silence settled in. Thick. Almost comforting.
Until the front door slammed.
Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar to those who refuse to recognize them.
Marcos stepped out of the room. Arthur followed.
In the living room—standing still, face worn, eyes hollow, a folder in his hands—was Rubens.
No one spoke. Not even him.
Marcos thought:
When silence walks through the door, it's because truth is right behind it.
Rubens looked at Arthur. Then at Marcos. Then at the portrait of his brother.
"I… came back."
Rubens remained frozen in the room. Folder in hand. The face of someone who returned, but doesn't know where to go.
Marcos watched in silence. Arthur leaned against the wall, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who didn't ask for this reunion.
"You came back," Marcos said, flatly.
"Yes. I… needed to settle a few things."
"Did you?"
Rubens hesitated.
"Not all of them."
Marcos stepped closer. Looked at the folder.
"Death certificate?"
Rubens nodded.
"My brother's."
"And your nephew's?"
Rubens frowned.
"What?"
"He died. Yesterday. In the study. Body still warm when I got there."
Silence.
Rubens lowered his head. The folder slipped from his hands. Papers scattered across the floor like confessions no one wanted to read.
Arthur didn't move.
"Congratulations. You're late for everything."
Rubens looked at his son.
"Arthur…"
"Don't start. I'm not in the mood for regretful adult drama."
Marcos crossed his arms.
"He's fourteen. And already speaks like someone with forty years of disappointment."
Rubens knelt down, gathering the papers. His hands were shaking.
"I didn't know. No one told me."
"Because no one knew where you were," Marcos said. "Or why."
Rubens looked at him.
"I… needed time."
"Time doesn't wait. It just piles up corpses."
Arthur scoffed.
"You always disappear when someone needs you. It's like a gift."
Rubens said nothing. His silence weighed more than any excuse.
Marcos stepped toward the fireplace. Picked up the journal. Dropped it onto the scattered papers.
"He wrote. He recorded. He felt. And no one listened."
Rubens touched the journal gently. As if holding something that might explode.
"He was afraid?"
"He was everything. Afraid, angry, silent. And no one wanted to see."
Arthur turned away.
"I saw it. But I thought it was just drama. Like yours."
Rubens looked at his son. Then at Marcos.
"What happens now?"
Marcos glanced at the patriarch's portrait.
"Now? Now the house is going to start talking. And you're going to have to listen."
Rubens nodded. But said nothing.
Marcos thought:
Some men come back to ask for forgiveness. Others come back because there's nowhere else to go.
He looked at Arthur. Then at Clara, who watched everything with the eyes of someone who's seen too much.
"Gather everyone. Tomorrow the questioning begins. And this time… no theatrics."
Arthur left the room without a word. Rubens remained kneeling. Clara went to fetch coffee. The butler, as always, vanished without a sound.
Marcos sat in the armchair. Journal in hand. Radio off. But the echo still lingered.
"If someone hears this… it means silence failed."