Marcus’s administrative leave meant confinement. My new “executive suite” on Floor 12 was opulent, with panoramic views of the city below, but the windows didn’t open. The door locked from the outside.
My meals arrived on a silver tray, delivered by silent staff. Each day followed a pattern: a gentle knock, the chime of the door, a brief, sterile interaction.
A soft, mournful sigh drifted from the shadows in the corner of the room. I turned my head, my eyes straining. The silhouette of a woman formed, wavering like heat haze.
It was Mother. Her face, indistinct and shimmering, gazed at me with profound disappointment.
“Always the weak one,” the phantom whispered, her voice like rustling leaves. “Couldn’t even hold a thought, could you?”
I recoiled, pressing my back against the cool wall. “It’s not real,” I mumbled. “Just my mind.”
The phantom stepped closer, the air around it growing heavy and cold. “Marcus, he’s strong. Always was. He carries the weight. You just break.”
Her words twisted inside me, echoing a lifetime of quiet dismissals from family gatherings, the unspoken judgments at holiday dinners. Marcus, the golden child, always capable, always in control.
“You tried to fight it,” the phantom continued, its voice a sorrowful drone. “Such a foolish boy. Just give in.”
Days blurred into a single, extended twilight. The whispers intensified, sometimes from the walls, sometimes from the corners of my vision. Always Mother’s voice, always Marcus’s praise.
The phantom of my mother wasn’t always just a specter. Sometimes, she sat on the edge of the bed, a solid presence, her hand stroking my hair. But her touch was icy, her words like sharp needles.
“Remember that time, Julian?” she’d say, her voice soft but chilling. “When you broke Father’s heirloom vase? Marcus took the blame, didn’t he? He always cleaned up your messes.”
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The memory was a dull ache. It was a porcelain statuette, not a vase, and Marcus had watched me break it, then stepped in with a practiced lie.
Sleep offered no escape. My dreams were fractured, glimpses of the black tar altar from Sub-Floor 8, mixed with Mother’s accusing eyes. I woke with a jolt, my body rigid, the words “weak, broken” pounding in my head.
I stopped arguing with the voices. My own thoughts seemed alien, distant. The world outside the window, vibrant and alive, felt like a painting I could no longer touch.
The paper, my warning, felt like a distant, absurd memory. Perhaps Marcus was right. Perhaps I was ill. Perhaps this gilded cage was for my own good.
I looked at my hands, pale and trembling slightly. The fight drained out of me, leaving behind a profound emptiness. My mind felt like shattered glass, beyond repair.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 4 to continue the story
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