Standing in front of his wooden door, Hayel hesitates.
His own home makes him uneasy.
But the empty street behind him feels worse.
Slowly, he lifts his hand and pushes the door open. The hinges creak softly as he steps inside.
Without turning around, he shuts it and scans the room.
The table.
The black stove.
The cabinets.
Everything's the same as before.
He moves quickly to the table, grabs the matches, and lights the candles. One by one, small flames bloom into life. Orange light spills across the wooden walls, pushing back the shadows but never quite reaching the corners.
The room looks warmer.
But it does not feel warmer.
Hayel stands beside the table, watching the flames flicker. Thin threads of smoke curl upward. His vision is still slightly blurred, and sometimes the smoke seems thicker than it should be… as if something is breathing through it.
He blinks hard and looks away.
At least his sight is improving. Faster than he expected.
The thought should comfort him.
Being half-blind forced him to rely on his ability, making him to get more used to it. It steadies him, lets him function in a way others do not.
He walked through the village, through the city, even cleaned the library floors without fully seeing where he stepped.
Slower than before.
But alive.
And slightly proud of himself.
He walks toward his bedroom and stops at the door. His hand lingers on the handle longer than necessary as he eventually opens it.
The cabinet.
The bed.
The window facing the street.
Everything appears normal. His ability senses nothing unusual either. No distortions. No presence.
Still, his shoulders remain tense.
He changes into his worn brown sleep clothes. The fabric is rough and thin, barely holding warmth. The nights are still cold. He shivers as he buttons the last clasp.
Back in the kitchen, he eats the remaining piece of bread in silence. Outside, the wind rises slightly. The window shifts, wood tapping faintly against wood. A dull, hollow rhythm.
The candles tremble.
The stillness of the house presses in on him, the wind, the dim glow, the quiet that feels too aware. Too attentive.
He imagines, briefly, what life would be like with more money, a better house, a softer bed, brighter rooms, less darkness collecting in corners like dust.
He shakes the thought away and cleans the table.
Then he pauses.
I seriously have an ability now…
Excitement sparks faintly inside him. He never truly believed he would gain one. As a child, he used to imagine it constantly, for example, fighting monsters, exploring forests, traveling to distant kingdoms, earning enough money to change everything.
His parents never had abilities. Neither did his grandparents. He always knew the truth deep down, he will probably never gain one.
Still, he dreamed.
Remembering the feeling of his ability, he closes his eyes and focuses, reaching out with that strange sense. The world around him dulls. Sound stretches thin. The air grows… wrong.
It feels like looking through something that should not exist.
A hollow place. Cold. Endless. Empty.
Then—
A sound.
At first it is faint, too low to understand. A vibration rather than a voice. It grows louder, clearer, like something forcing itself through a space too small to contain it.
Not a person.
Something else.
Behind him.
He feels it before he fully hears it. Small. Barely reaching his shoulders. The torso short, but the legs… too long for its body. Too thin. Like stretched shadows rather than limbs.
It stands there. Motionless.
Watching.
He keeps focusing despite the fear clawing up his spine. The thing murmurs, repeating something in a low, uneven tone, as if remembering language instead of speaking it.
The room grows colder.
It takes one slow step closer.
"The… head… do you want…"
His heart slams violently in his chest.
He breaks his focus and whirls around.
Nothing.
Empty space.
His ability senses nothing now. No presence. No distortion. Just air.
"What the hell…?" he whispers. "What is this… What is wrong with this ability…?"
His stomach twists. The thought crawls into his mind uninvited, Does it come when I use my ability? Or… was it always here?
He begins pacing, muttering under his breath, words spilling out without meaning. Every shadow feels deeper now, every corner heavier.
Finally, he collapses into the chair, lightheaded. His shoulders hunch inward. He bites at his nails unconsciously, body still trembling.
Cold.
So cold.
Then—
Darkness.
The candles die all at once.
No flicker.
No warning.
Just gone.
Hayel freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He does not dare move, does not dare breathe louder than the wind outside.
He listens.
Waiting for footsteps.
For breathing, for that voice again.
But there is only silence.
Minutes pass.
Then more.
Half an hour crawls by before he finally gathers enough courage to move. Slowly, painfully slowly, he reaches toward the table for the matches.
His hand stops midair.
The table is empty.
Only the candles remain, their blackened wicks thin and still. The matches are not there. Not on the floor. Not on the chairs.
He stands up, panic rising, and searches the room. Corners. Shelves. Cabinets. Every place they could have fallen.
Nothing.
His pulse roars in his ears as the realization settles in, heavy and suffocating.
"…It stole my matches…?" he whispers into the dark.
The house does not answer.