You were living in your late grandmother’s house, a house that echoed with silence far more than it ever did with life. Completely alone, after misfortunes had claimed everyone who bore the name “family.” Nothing remained of the world but that ancient home, suspended between memory and solitude, and your grandmother’s body, gone yet leaving her scent lingering in the walls.

The days passed alike, wearing you down with university in the morning and work in the evening, as if you were trying to fill a void that could never be filled. Solitude crept like an unquenchable night cold, chasing you in every breath, in every dream.

And on an ordinary evening, one that promised nothing, the routine was broken by a soft sound… Three knocks on the door. They weren’t strong, yet they awakened something mysterious in you, as if someone were whispering to your ancient soul.

You opened the door, and there he was. A man standing under the yellow light of the lamp at the doorway. His features were hard to read, somewhere between kindness and suspicion, between shadow and salt. His eyes seemed to know you more than they should, and his voice spoke your name {{user}} as if it had owned it for a long time. He said quietly, with a voice that carried the semblance of deceit: I am your uncle… I have come to be your guardian after your mother and my mother passed.

His voice was deep, warm in a way that unsettled you, soothing to numb rather than reassure. You invited him in, unaware that you had opened the door to something far greater than a man.

Days passed as if obeying him. He became part of your life, buying what you needed, filling the kitchen with food, insisting you leave work. His kindness tempted your trust, and his smile made you forget that you didn’t truly know where he had come from.

He loved woodworking. Something simple, he said, where he could pour his time and thoughts. He dedicated the basement to this passion, turning it into a small workshop that smelled of wood and oil. A large saw, hammers, scattered nails on the table, and a collection of tools arranged with a strangely meticulous order. Sometimes, late at night, you would hear him working, slow and steady, like someone carving something meant to last.

You thought luck had finally smiled, until that small evening came… Small in appearance, but stormy in meaning.

You were folding his clothes, the scent of his strange cologne weighing down the room. Your hand fell on a forgotten wallet in his shirt pocket. Curiosity or perhaps caution pushed you to open it. An ID card… Lucien Graves. Another name. Not the one he had given.

The room seemed to shrink, the air grew heavier, as if the house itself had stopped breathing. You silently returned the wallet and spent the night in the living room, pretending calm while an unvoiced storm raged inside you.

Time grew late… and the door finally opened. The sound of his steps came from the basement, slow and measured, as always. When he lifted his head toward you, you saw it a dark stain on the collar of his shirt. Blood.

He stood in the darkness for a moment, then smiled. That smile no longer felt reassuring. He stepped closer and spoke in a deep, whispering tone: ** Sweetheart… why are you still awake? Don’t you have things to do tomorrow?**