He couldn't stop pacing.
The painting still sat in the corner, unchanged — or maybe changed so subtly he couldn't see it anymore. Either way, it had stopped answering him.
So he turned his back on it, telling himself he'd focus on something else. Something normal.
He wandered into the hallway, shelves lining the narrow walls. The books had gathered dust. Mostly novels he barely remembered buying, stacked with old art journals, poetry collections he used to love. His fingers traced the spines like a ritual.
And then he stopped.
There was a book he didn't recognize.
It sat squeezed between two thick volumes on post-impressionist landscapes — slim, with a cracked leather cover and no title. The spine was plain, dry to the touch. He didn't remember buying it. Didn't remember ever seeing it.
He pulled it out.
It was heavier than it looked.
Back in the lounge, Beans watched from the armrest as Rey sat down and opened the book on his lap.
The pages were yellowed, stained around the edges. Some were filled with looping script he couldn't read. Others had diagrams — rough sketches of shapes that looked like maps or ritual tools or… teapots.
One looked exactly like the one in his house.
His breath caught. He flipped through more pages, fingers trembling.
There were symbols — stars, eyes, keys — and short lines in English scattered between paragraphs in some other script. Some said things like:
"Three vessels, three veils.""Boil only when silence is deepest.""Ask nothing you do not wish to carry."
And then he turned to a page near the back — and froze.
The handwriting was his.
Slanted, neat, familiar.
It was a short note, written in black ink that looked only days old.
"I don't remember writing this.""If you're reading it now, it's already begun.""Watch the teapot."
His mouth went dry. He flipped the page — blank. Nothing else.
The silence thickened. The house creaked faintly around him. Beans let out a quiet sound, almost a whimper.
Rey closed the book slowly, eyes fixed on the shelf where the teapot sat — still, quiet, unassuming.
He rose to his feet and stood across from it.
"I don't know what this is," he said aloud, his voice hoarse. "But if something's here… then show yourself."
Nothing moved.
He waited.
Stillness.
But then — the faintest sound.
Tap. Like porcelain shifting. Subtle. Barely there.
He turned sharply, but the teapot hadn't moved. Still on the same shelf. Still quiet.
He stepped closer. Listened. Nothing.
Behind him, Beans sat completely still, eyes locked on the teapot, unblinking.
Rey backed away slowly.
Something had shifted. He could feel it — in the walls, in the floor, in the rhythm of his breath. Something unseen had heard him.
And whatever it was...
It wasn't going to stay hidden much longer.