Mystery
The silence in Blackwood Manor was not the absence of sound, but a heavy, velvet weight that pressed against the eardrums. Julian Vane stood in the grand gallery, his breath hitching as he stared at the floor-to-ceiling mirror that guarded the entrance to the ballroom.
The mirror was a Baroque monstrosity, its frame a gilded tangle of weeping cherubs and thorny vines. But it was the glass that commanded attention. A single, jagged crack bifurcated the surface, running from the top left corner down to the center, like a lightning bolt frozen in silver. In the ballroom behind Julian, the air smelled of spilled vintage Moët, expensive lilies, and the sharp, copper tang of blood.
The coworking space never slept. It only dimmed, like a city seen through smoked glass. Server racks lined the walls in uneven rows, their LEDs blinking in patient, predatory rhythms—greens pulsing like slow heartbeats, reds flaring like warning flares that no one answered. The air smelled of overheated plastic and burnt coffee, and the constant hum of fans pressed against my ears until silence felt theoretical.
The square lay empty beneath the clocktower, its stones slick with the night’s cold breath. Frost traced the mortar lines like pale veins, and the statues of saints watched with eyes dulled by centuries of soot. Above them all rose the tower—gothic ribs climbing into darkness, its clock face a moon caught in iron. When it chimed, the sound was not a bell so much as a presence, pressing against the ribs and the lungs alike.