Dusk taught secrecy.
Light thinned into lamplight; lamplight thinned into guesswork. Patricia threaded a needle on a breath held almost to superstition. Christian tested a wick and pretended he hadn't been thinking about it all day. The rafters settled like old men deciding to be comfortable. Thibault "read," guarding the room with peripheral sight.
Thomas lay on the rug, timing the window's stripe as it stretched. When it reached the table leg, the pane arrived—tidy as a clerk.
[SEQ] Orientation II — Perform three perfect motions before dusk ends:
[SEQ] Motions: (1) Breath, (2) Step, (3) Stillness.
[SEQ] Reward: +5 XP; Title Seed: Night Veil (+1).
[SEQ] Failure: Penalty (Catacombs).
Three was enough; it spared you explanations.
He rolled to his knees, and made the room into a problem.
The first motion—Breath—wasn't about air; it was about presence, entering so the room doesn't react to you at all.
The second—Step—meant getting past the squeaky board—the predictable snitch—without letting it make a sound.
The third—Stillness—meant when noticed, becoming background—letting eyes slide past you.
He selected his instruments: a spoon on the table's edge ready to clatter; the traitor board two paces to the left; a slash of lamp-shadow across the rug that liked to tattle when crossed.
Patricia's voice floated from the other room. "If anyone goes near the sugar bowl, I will know."
"No one will go," Christian promised, with the sincerity of a man planning to go.
Breath. Thomas sat back onto his heels and made himself a rumor. He let every reach in him detach and wander, as if he were stepping out of clothes without wrinkling them. The room did not change, remained itself.
He stole one quiet lungful, weight balance on palms and shins. He timed the inhale to the tiny cough Christian always had after a flame caught—a cover he had learned without meaning to. Exhale on Patricia's stitch. No draft. No ripple on the lamp's glass. The spoon decided it had nothing to report.
He waited for the pane to scold him for doing it wrong. It liked to be particular.
Nothing. Good. Breath counted.
Step. The floorboard prized noise over truth. Two paces to the left, one forward: danger. Thomas rocked gently until he found how the board wanted to be stepped on—centered, heel reluctant, toe forgiving—then tilted his weight, touch-first, like someone introducing bad news to a friend who deserved better.
The board considered squeaking. He paid it respect instead. You matter. I won't prove it by bruising you. Flattered, it kept quiet.
Halfway through the shadow slash. He felt the lamp's line on his skin—thin, warm, a ruler. He slid through, slow enough that the edge of shadow had time to forget it needed to make a fuss. On the table, the spoon inched toward a decision and then reconsidered, which is what cutlery should always do.
He set his foot down on the safe plank as if he had always been there.
The pane took notes without bragging.
[SEQ] Orientation II — Motion 1/3 (Breath): Success.
[SEQ] Orientation II — Motion 2/3 (Step): Success.
He swallowed the urge to grin at the room. Stillness remained, and unwritten promises are easier to keep.
He took a small risk. From the table's edge, the spoon thought about suicide. Thomas pressed the idea of stay into the air around it, the faintest press of intent. Not a push. A reminder. The spoon settled into its own weight like a person changing their mind.
And there it was—the cold that did not belong. Not in the room; under it. A patient pressure seeping up through the stone, like the Catacombs clearing its throat below.
A thin warning cut across his vision.
[SEQ] Warning — Penalty proximity detected (Noise/Lampline).
[SEQ] Status: Mitigated.
[SEQ] Continue within 90 s.
So he had been too proud with the spoon. Pride was a noise you made with your insides.
He reset everything with a single breath. The lamp-whisper tugged the shadow line back into place. He let the air go still between his teeth and tongue. He counted to five using the small bones of his hands.
One knock from the hallway, not urgent. Patricia rose. The chair sighed too loudly. Thibault looked up.
Thomas shaped himself into Stillness for practice—a coat on a chair, a doll too heavy to play with—then let it go before the pane took notice. Not yet. The room needed to be quieter.
The spoon sulked inward. The traitor board basked in forgiveness. The lamp took one steady breath.
The ninety seconds ran thin; he didn't interfere. Dusk ended slowly, like a sentence reluctant to stop.
The pane did not yet give permission. It preferred to see if he would hurry.
He did not hurry. Haste makes sound; sound exacts a fee.
Now, he thought.
He let his eyes go vague; his mouth go empty; his weight become part of the floor. He didn't disappear. He became irrelevant.
Patricia's voice came back sweet with neighborly victory. The door let the night out. Thibault turned a page—the sound of a small fence falling over in a polite meadow. A cover, if you were brave.
Thomas went motionless and unremarkable, letting eyes slide past him.
(…to be continued)