"And yet… it happened."
"She… asked for me?"
"She begged."
There was something deeply unsettling in the choice of that word.
"Until yesterday, we were unaware of your existence," Heinforth continued. "And yet… she knew you."
Brice rose slightly from his chair, as though his body reacted before his reason.
"Then… we should go to her."
Heinforth stood as well, though he did not move at once.
"We shall," he said gently. "But there is something you must understand first."
A pause.
"There is a price."
Brice frowned.
"Danger?"
"Not precisely." A faint smile. "Or, at least, not in the usual sense."
He inclined his head.
"What is at stake, Professor, are your convictions. Once you cross that threshold… you will find it difficult to return to what you believed to be true."
Brice held his gaze for a moment—then smiled faintly, almost with irony.
"I am a man of science, Mr. Heinforth. My task is precisely to question what I believe I know."
"Then you are willing?"
"Naturally."
Heinforth nodded.
"Very well," he said, with contained energy. "Follow me."
They had taken only a few steps toward the door when he added, as though recalling something minor:
"Only… try not to be alarmed."
Brice turned.
"Alarmed?"
"Our daughter, at times…" he hesitated, visibly for the first time, "manifests certain phenomena."
"What kind of phenomena?"
Heinforth drew a breath.
"She… expels things."
"Things?"
"Objects that should not be there."
Brice's gaze sharpened.
"Be more precise."
Heinforth held the silence for a moment longer than necessary.
"Charcoal, for instance."
A pause.
"From within her."
Brice did not respond.
"And not only that," he added, more quietly. "On one occasion… it was a frog."
The name of the animal sounded absurdly concrete in that context.
"That is impossible," Brice said, almost automatically.
"Yes," Heinforth replied.
And for the first time, there was something like fatigue in his voice.
"That is precisely what we have been telling ourselves."
Heinforth took a step forward, and for the first time his voice lost its studied softness.
"Professor!" he said, with controlled firmness. "Do you still insist on treating all this as illusion? Was I not clear in warning you? There are doors which, once opened, demand more than curiosity… they demand renunciation."
The final word seemed to linger in the air.
"Moreover," he continued, more quietly, "everything that is seen, said… or even imagined within this house… must not pass beyond its limits."
Brice nodded, but only out of habit. His attention was no longer there. Without quite realizing when, he found himself seized by an insistent image: the body of Father Spagnesi, suspended, swaying slowly in the heavy air of a closed room.
"Do not concern yourself," he murmured, without conviction.
They proceeded through corridors far too long for an ordinary residence. There was in them a regularity that wearied the eye, as though each door were merely the repetition of another, and each turn led back to the same place—though such a thing was impossible.
At last, they arrived.
The door.
Heinforth delayed a second longer than necessary before turning the key.
They entered.
The room was immaculate. Excessively so. Everything was in its place with a precision that suggested not care, but vigilance. The curtains, the furniture, the arrangement of objects—nothing appeared to have been touched by chance.
But that was not what held the gaze.
The walls.
They were covered.
Not merely filled, but overtaken, as though every inch had been claimed by those black markings. They were no longer scribbles—no longer could they be called that. There was a density there, a persistence, like overlapping pages of a script that refused to end.
And in the corner of the room, seated on the floor, was Brenda.
Her back to them.
Her long, dark hair concealed her face. Her body, motionless, suggested rest—but there was nothing restful in that stillness. It was rather a suspension, as though she awaited something not yet spoken.
Heinforth locked the door behind them.
The click sounded loud.
He raised his hand, indicating that Brice should remain where he was, and advanced alone, step by step, with a caution that was not fear, but respect.
"Brenda…" he whispered. "He is here. As you requested."
The response came at once.
Not as speech forming, but as something emerging.
"I know…"
The voice did not belong to the figure seated on the floor. It was deeper, denser—and within it there was a slowness that was not natural, as though each word had to pass through an unseen resistance before it could exist.
"There was only one time…" it continued, "when my call was not answered."
A pause.
"But you do not remember… do you, Brice?"
The name was spoken with a familiarity that did not ask permission.
Heinforth turned slightly, indicating that he should reply.
Brice swallowed.
"No… I do not remember."
A brief inflection—almost a laugh, though devoid of any trace of humor.
"Of course you do not."
Then it happened.
Slowly—or perhaps too quickly to be comprehended—Brenda's head turned.
Not her body.
Only the head.
The movement was continuous, impossible, until her face, pale and at last revealed, was turned directly toward them.
Brice felt the cold before he understood what he was seeing.
The eyes.
There was something wrong with them—not merely absence, but excess. As though they looked from a place that did not coincide with the body.
Her mouth opened.
And something dark fell to the floor.
A piece of charcoal.
The sound was dry.
The smell came next.
Smoke.
Not dense, not visible—yet unmistakable. An ancient odor, like wood burned long ago and still lingering.
Brice blinked.
And then he heard.
At first, far away.
Then, within himself.
Screams.
Not a single one, but many. Overlapping. Men, women, children—voices rising in despair, as though trapped within a continuous moment of destruction. There was fire. There was water. There was loss.
He raised a hand to his head.
But as suddenly as they had arisen, the voices ceased.
Brenda's head returned to its original position.
Still.
But the voice remained.
"You need not answer, Buchmakher."
A slight pause.
"Or would you prefer that I call you by the name you used when you still remembered who you were?"
The silence became unbearable.
"Simon Brice…"
Now the name seemed to carry weight.
"Do you believe… in genetic memory?"
Brice felt something within him recoil—and something else advance.
"I believe…" he said, with difficulty, "in the possibility of hereditary transmission of patterns."
"You believe…" the voice repeated. "But you do not remember."
A slight inclination of the head.
"They are there. Asleep."
The air seemed to vibrate.
"Do you wish to awaken them?"
A shock passed through Brice's body, sudden and involuntary.
"I… do not know."
"You do not know?"
The word echoed.
"How curious. A man of convictions… now hesitates."
Silence.
"As for me…" the voice continued, "I am not omniscient. But I travel. A great deal." A strange inflection, almost physical, passed through the phrase. "Even when the body… resists."
A pause.
"And I know where to look."