The laughter, the murmurs and the clinking of glasses in the large dining room were enveloped in an almost choreographed atmosphere. Every gesture, every word, every smile, everything seemed carefully measured, as if the guests were performing on an invisible stage, gracefully disguising their ambitions and rivalries. It was a family feast, but not a united family, but a nest of vipers dressed in velvet.
The great table stretched the length of the hall, covered with a banquet fit for kings. Exotic foods and vintage wines were paraded in front of the guests, served with pinpoint precision by maids who moved with the grace of well-trained automatons. And as if fate was playing with them, the seats had coincided - almost exactly - with the ones they had occupied earlier that morning. A coincidence... or perhaps, a premeditated prank by the mansion itself.
Among the many superficial conversations, one in particular stood out. The three brothers who argued on the first day were now chatting with impeccable smiles with Riku's mother, his sister. They feigned concern, asking her about her husband, her life, her children. She, as always, responded with the same tempered dignity that characterised her. Her tone was measured, respectful, without a word more than was necessary. She showed affection and filial duty, but not a crack of sincere emotion peeped through her façade. Like a noble mask, perfectly polished.
The meal continued, the glasses were filled, the knives cut incessantly. Until it happened.
Without warning, as if some strange will had flipped a hidden switch, the entire mansion was invaded by a sound. A children's song, barely distorted, began to sound from every corner. It came from the walls, from the ceiling, from the floor, from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. A sweet melody, too slow, too in tune... so perfect that it was unnatural. The children's voices sang in unison, but there was something in the tonality, in the cadence of each syllable, that made your skin crawl.
The guests froze. Some knives were suspended mid-cut. Some glasses stopped moving before they reached the lips.
The song, however, did not stop. On the contrary. It began to cut in and out with a dry, static noise, as if the signal from some invisible loudspeaker was failing. And then, amidst that intermittent hum, something else emerged. A voice.
It was not possible to describe it. You couldn't tell if it belonged to a child or an old woman, a man or a woman. It was as if all ages and genders had blended in one throat. Every word she uttered belonged to an unknown language, guttural, impossible to identify, and yet... it evoked a familiar echo deep in the subconscious.
The voice spoke between the fragments of the song, superimposed like a parasite on a host. No one understood, but everyone felt that what it said should not be heard. The song became increasingly unsteady, and just before the sound cut out completely, a final phrase emerged. This time, it was the voice of a girl. A girl who spoke above the impossible voice.
-Pa... pa... pa... you're finally back... bi... welcome back...
And then, silence.
Total silence. The kind of silence that leaves no room even for the sound of the heart.
Glances crossed in all directions. Some turned to look at the windows, others looked up at the ceiling, as if expecting to find hidden speakers. But there was nothing. Only the echo of that voice... that still seemed to vibrate in their bones.
A wave of bewilderment swept through the room. Some looked at each other in disbelief. Others, more nervous, began to speak loudly, demanding explanations. One lady stood up suddenly, dropping her glass. The glass shattered in a clatter that seemed all the more violent for the silence that had preceded it.
-What was that? -asked one of the brothers, his voice sharp and strained, trying to keep his composure.
-Is this some kind of a joke? -said another, his eyes fixed on the old maid, who stood motionless.
The old maid, standing in the corner of the room, did not seem surprised. But she didn't answer either. Her expression was unreadable, as if she had already heard that song in another time, in another life. As if she knew there was no point in explaining herself now.
And as the guests began to rise from their seats, agitated, searching for answers, the echo of that last sentence still hung in the air, more persistent than the aroma of the food:
"Dad... you're back at last... welcome back..."
The feast had become a prelude. A threshold. The real game had just begun.