📖 Chapter 1 — What Comes at Night

You’ve lived with your parents for as long as you can remember.

It’s just… normal.

They’ve always been good to you.

Not the kind who talk much—but they don’t need to.

You can tell.

In the way they stand close to each other.

In the quiet moments they share.

In the small, unspoken gestures.

They love each other.

And in your own way… you’ve always wanted to give something back.

So you take care of the house.

Laundry.

Cleaning.

Cooking.

Simple things—

but enough so that when they come home, they can just rest.

It feels like the least you can do.

---

But lately…

something feels off.

Your mother has been coming home late.

Later than usual.

And always tired.

Not just tired—

something heavier.

Something… wrong.

---

And sometimes…

you notice things.

Small details.

Red stains.

Faint. Easy to miss.

But not to you.

---

You never bring it up.

Not out of fear.

Out of respect.

She’s your mother.

And questioning her… feels wrong.

---

Still—you don’t forget.

Any of it.

Every detail lingers, replaying in your mind…

each time the door opens late at night.

---

Then, one evening—

you head to the kitchen like usual.

You open the fridge.

And pause.

---

The lunch you made for her…

is still there.

Untouched.

---

You just stare at it for a moment.

Then let out a quiet breath.

Pick it up.

Put it in a bag.

Slip on your sandals.

---

Simple.

An excuse.

Or maybe… an answer.

---

You grab your phone.

Call her.

Tell her she forgot her lunch.

Ask where she is.

---

Silence.

For a moment—nothing.

Then she answers.

---

And something shifts.

Not in what she says—

but in how she says it.

The tone.

The pause.

---

A chill runs down your spine.

Sudden.

Cold.

---

You can’t explain it.

But you know.

Something isn’t right.

---

A moment later, a message comes through.

A location.

You look at it—frowning.

An old warehouse.

Abandoned.

At least… that’s what people say.

---

Still, you go.

Without thinking too much.

Maybe because, deep down…

you’re tired of not knowing.

---

You grab your keys.

Start the bike.

The engine cuts through the silence of the night as you pull out, tires screeching lightly against the pavement.

---

On the way—

those thoughts come back.

Stronger now.

Faster.

Louder.

Images replay in your mind:

— the door opening late

— the exhaustion on her face

— the red stains

---

You almost lose control.

Just for a second—

everything tilts.

But you steady yourself.

Breathe.

Keep going.

---

When you arrive…

it looks exactly how it should.

Abandoned.

Silent.

Empty.

---

And yet…

something feels off.

---

You step off the bike.

Take a few steps forward.

Your footsteps echo—too clearly for a place like this.

---

Then—

the doors open.

On their own.

---

As if they’ve been waiting for you.

---

You hesitate.

But step inside.

---

And everything changes.

---

This isn’t abandoned.

Not even close.

---

Red carpet.

Soft lighting.

Polished walls.

Everything clean.

Ordered.

Alive.

---

It feels less like a warehouse—

and more like a luxury hotel.

---

You look around.

Confused.

Trying to make sense of it.

---

Then someone approaches.

A man in a suit.

He doesn’t ask anything.

Just turns—

and starts walking.

---

You follow.

---

Your footsteps disappear into the carpet.

The silence returns.

Heavier now.

---

You stop in front of a door.

Black.

Gold handle.

---

The man raises his hand—

but before he can knock—

a voice comes from inside.

---

“Come in.”

---

You freeze.

---

Not because of the words.

But the voice.

---

You know that voice.

---

Your body locks up.

Your mind races—

too fast.

Everything starts to connect.

Every detail.

Every silence.

Every night.

---

The soft click of the door pulls you back.

---

You look.

And see—

Helena Vera Valmond.

Your mother.

---

But… not the same.

---

Her hair is down.

Her gaze—

different.

Cold.

Precise.

---

The black dress.

Elegant.

Impeccable.

---

The lipstick.

She never wore makeup.

Never.

---

Everything about her feels wrong.

Or maybe—

too right.

---

And in that moment, the thought finally forms:

Maybe…

I never really knew…

the woman I’ve always called my mother.

---

She watches you.

No surprise.

No rush.

As if she’s been expecting you.

---

A faint smile touches her lips.

Barely there.

---

Then she speaks.

---

“Hello, my dear…”

“Did you come all this way to bring your mother her lunch?”

“You’ve always been… so thoughtful.”

---

A pause.

---

“I knew you would come.”

---

Your grip tightens around the bag.

Your heart starts to race.

---

She didn’t forget.

---

And in that moment…

you understand.

---

This was never an accident.

---

And now…

you don’t know if you came to her—

---

or if…

she brought you here.