Chapter 3 - The Sound of Clicking Heels on Cold Marble
The afternoon sunlight slanted long and thin through the arched windows of the upper hallway, casting pale gold bars across the polished oak floorboards. My shoes made almost no sound as I walked toward the west wing, though the heavy silence of the mansion felt louder than usual. Every shadow near the wainscoting seemed to stretch and shift, carrying the invisible weight of what Giura had told me by the crystal chandelier.
When I reached the heavy mahogany door of Giura’s playroom, it stood slightly ajar. I paused, drawing a slow breath to steady the sudden tight constriction in my chest, and pushed the door open just enough to look inside.
Giura sat at a low white wooden table near the bay window. She wore her pink dress with the small bows tied neatly at the shoulders, her dark curly hair falling forward as she leaned intently over a large sheet of drawing paper. A box of colored wax crayons lay scattered around her small hands. She was coloring with quiet concentration, moving a yellow crayon in slow, deliberate strokes.
"Giura," I said softly, careful not to startle her.
She didn't jump. She simply stopped coloring, lifted her head, and turned those large, dark eyes toward me. There was no fear in her expression, only a calm, heavy certainty that felt far too old for her years.
"You came back," she said.
I stepped fully into the room, closing the door quietly behind me. The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and paper. I pulled a small wooden chair over from the corner, sat down opposite her, and rested my hands on the edge of the table.
"I told you I would," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "Giura, we need to talk about what you said downstairs. About the man in the shiny shoes."
She picked up a blue crayon, turning it over between her fingers. "He thinks nobody hears him because he walks very carefully. But the marble floor in the big hall doesn't like heavy boots. It sings."
"Sings?" I asked, leaning in slightly.
"Clack. Clack-clack. Like little hammers," she explained, tapping the blue crayon softly against the wooden tabletop to demonstrate. "Late at night, when the house goes dark and the big lights in the ceiling are turned off. He walks past my door without making a sound until he hits the cold stone by the stairs."
My skin prickled. I thought of the older man in the dark suit—the tailored wool trousers, the immaculate leather shoes with their high-gloss finish that caught the chandelier light without a single flaw. He walked these halls a dozen times a day with quiet, measured grace. But at night, when the rest of the household slept, those same shoes apparently found a different rhythm.
"Does he just walk by, Giura?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave. "Or does he stop somewhere?"
She shook her head, her dark curls bouncing slightly. "He stops by your room. The big bedroom at the end of the hall where the heavy curtains are."
A cold weight settled in the pit of my stomach. "My room?"
"He goes inside when you're sleeping," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if she were sharing a secret about the weather. "I looked out my door once because I was thirsty. The light was on in your bathroom, just a little yellow stripe under the door. I saw his black shoes standing right outside the sink."
I stared at her, the pieces locking together with a sickening precision. Every morning for the past three months, I had woken up with a heavy, unnatural fog clinging to my thoughts—a thick, muddy exhaustion that took hours to burn off, no matter how many hours of sleep I logged. My doctor had shrugged it off as stress, adjusting my evening prescription twice without any improvement.
"What was he doing by the sink, Giura?" I asked, my throat tightening.
"He had the little glass bottles," she said simply, pointing a small finger toward the shelf where I kept my daily health supplements and prescription vials. "The ones you take with water before you go to bed. He opened the cabinet, took one out, and put something else back in. Then he wiped the glass with his handkerchief and put it back just right."
The room seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. The small bouquet of white daisies I had left on the hallway console suddenly felt like a farewell offering to a ghost who was entirely real. It wasn't just isolation or illness that had been slowly wearing me down; someone inside this house—someone I trusted enough to give free run of the estate—was systematically poisoning the well.
"Did he see you watching?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the faint hum of the distant HVAC system.
"No," Giura said, returning her gaze to her drawing. "He walks like a cat. But cats leave footprints if you know where to look."
I reached across the table and gently placed my hand over her small fingers, stopping the movement of the crayon. She looked up at me again, her gaze unwavering.
"Thank you for telling me, Giura," I said, the words thick with a sudden, fierce protectiveness. "You stay right here in your room. Don't open the door for anyone tonight. Do you understand?"
"Even if the shoes make noise?" she asked.
"Especially if they make noise," I replied, standing up from the chair.
May you like
As I walked out of the playroom and pulled the door shut, the quiet luxury of the mansion no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a trap, and the time for hesitation had officially run out.
###
