"Creak…
The echo of a dragging footstep moved through the long corridor, straight toward the wooden door. Crow's eyes opened slowly.
He remained lying down, scanning the room. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, not understanding how he had gotten there — yet something about the place felt familiar. Slowly, he rose from the bed, standing upright and stretching his body down and up, down and up, again and again.
The footsteps came again from the corridor, cutting through the silence.
"Creak."
Crow turned toward the desk, but his ears stayed fixed on the sound beyond the door. He stepped forward, moving closer, his gaze lowering to the thin crack along the wood.
Placing his right eye against it, he peered through the narrow slit in the wooden door.
Again, the sound sliced through the silence.
Creak.
He shifted back from the door, eyes scanning the room quickly before moving to the desk in the corner. Opening the cupboard, he pulled out a rusted blade, gripping it tightly in his hand.
As if something had brushed past him like a bird in flight, he spun around, slashing wildly through the air with his rusted blade.
A feather drifted down from above, landing softly at his feet. His eyes followed it, wide with surprise.
Then came a sound — church bells ringing, echoing through the air. The feather fluttered away. Crow turned sharply, gazing upward at the sky, at the rooftops.
"Buildings…" he muttered, confused,
before the bell's peal rang again.
How? he thought. But I was inside,
outside… How did I get up there?
Before he could process it, the same sound sliced through the air once more, sharp and impossible.
Tap.
Church bells echoed in his mind, his voice trembling as he muttered to himself. His eyes scanned the room, moving aimlessly.
Then it came — a gentle voice cutting through the chaos in his thoughts:
"Could we have a moment of your time?"
Surprised, he blurted out, "We… But who? How many? Just one person speaking? How?"
He raised both hands, gripping the blade tightly, and pointed it toward the figure as he lifted his eyes to meet the speaker. He studied the person carefully before saying,
"Only one person… What does he mean we —"
His hand shaking legs trembling he raised the rusted blade towards the figure stepping forward
"tap.
His eyes wide refusing to blink
Sweat dropping from his hands and his face without moving a hinge
The voice came again, clear and commanding.
"We just want to ask a few questions."
Crow Morrow looked around. There was no one there—only him and the voice. Confusion flickered across his mind.
But he refused to blink. He refused to move. Instead, he held the rusted blade tightly, pointing it toward the unseen speaker.
Still frozen in place, he felt the voice close to his ear, whispering.
For some reason, he turned his head. There was no one there—only the whispering wind.
Then something drew his gaze downward, toward his feet, as if the voice had risen from his own shadow.
His eyes fell to his feet, staring at his shadow. Fear gripped his legs, making them tremble. Twisting his hand, he flung the rusted blade aside.
Without realizing it, he stepped backward—right onto his own shadow. For some reason, he began to sink into it.
Then something—a dark, intangible force—seized him,
dragging him down. It clutched his leg, pulling him slowly into the blackness of his own shadow, until he was swallowed completely.
He stood in an empty space—a void of nothingness, pure darkness. He looked around, but could not see his own feet or even his body.
At the far end of the void, a lamp glowed faintly over a table. Surprise flickered across his face as he stepped closer. Yet no matter how far away he had been, for some inexplicable reason,
He was already closer to the table and the lamp.
His eyes dimmed, his breath heavy, his heart hammering. Every step, every draft of air in this emptiness felt as if the real world had collapsed into a dark void.
"What the hell is going on? Bloody nonsense."
He shifted back, trying to flee.
Then a swarm of lids gathered around him—
laughing, whispering.
Secret… secret… secret…
Losing his balance, he fell, crawling with his hands and feet, desperate to escape.
The whispers continued, repeating the same words—
secret… secret… secret… secret…
Then a soft, almost ethereal hand brushed his shoulder. He spun around—yet there was nothing there. Only the lamp and the table.
Confused, he staggered to his feet. Heat surged through him, raw and intense. He could feel the pressure of flesh pressing against flesh.
He lifted his head—and froze, eyes wide at the unsettling figure looming above him.
Its eyes were sewn shut. Its lips were sewn tight. A face trapped in silence and blindness.
The figure stretched a hand forward. Its palm opened, and there, resting on it, was a single coin.
It moved its lips silently, mouthing words he could not hear. Around the space, the air seemed to repeat the motion:
Pick it… pick it… the coin…
Crow Morrow stretched his hand forward and took the coin from the figure's palm.
Then a word—mouthed by the figure—echoed through the void.
Crow turned and realized he was closer to the table, the gas lamp flickering overhead.
On the table sat a silver cup. The voice repeated the same words, cold and unwavering.
Inside the cup rested the coin. Beneath it was a liquid—bloody, yet not red, not crimson, not blood, but something unnatural, shimmering strangely in the dim light.
Crow's hands trembled as he lifted the coin and placed it atop the cup.
A thought passed through his mind. The air shifted around him, heavy and expectant.
He looked around once more, then raised his gaze to the figure above him. Placing a hand on his lips, he whispered aloud:
Secret…
In an instant, the void collapsed. The space vanished.
He found himself sitting atop the building once again, alone with the wind, the city sprawling below, and the memory of the impossible lingering in the air.
"Nothing but a sprouting of preposterousness,"
he said, his voice calm and measured, eyes resting on his hand on the stone floor. A gold-silver card lay beside it.
He stood, brushing dust from his clothes, then picked up the card, studying what was written on it—an address, neatly embossed.
"Bloody nonsense… is this some sort of invitation?" he muttered.
"Quite not funny," he added under his breath.
He looked around. He was still atop the roof, perched there for hours, taking in the view. Finally, he let out a slow breath of relief.