Morning arrived gently in Veymora.
The man of the house rose before the sun had fully settled into the sky. Not out of urgency—out of habit. Precision had a way of waking him better than any alarm ever could.
He moved straight to the bathroom.
The motions were familiar. Rehearsed.
Brush. Rinse. Wipe.
Then more.
Creams lined the sink in neat rows. Lotions, balms, liquids with careful labels. He applied them one by one, methodical, thorough. There was no indulgence in it—no pleasure. It was simply how things were done. How they had to be done.
Each step followed the last without pause, without question.
When he finished, he examined the result briefly. Not with admiration—just confirmation.
Acceptable.
He dressed carefully. Shirt smooth. Cuffs even. Tie adjusted, loosened, then tightened again. He stood still for a moment, fingers resting at his collar, making sure the knot sat exactly where it should.
Perfect was not a goal.
It was a requirement.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled warm and familiar. His wife had already prepared lunch, packed neatly and waiting.
He took it, kissed her cheek, and smiled.
A good smile. A practiced one.
"I'll be going then, darling"
Before stepping out, he paused. "What did you make for lunch?"
She answered easily. Rice. Curry. The same as yesterday.
Something in his expression shifted—not enough to be seen at first glance. Just a brief stillness. A fraction too long.
"The same as yesterday?" he repeated softly.
Then, just as quickly, the smile returned.
"Its fine" he said. "Youre working hard enough."
He left without another word.
Behind him, the door closed gently. His wife remained where she was, smiling until the sound of his footsteps faded. Only then did her hand curl at her side, fingers tightening hard enough to ache. She exhaled slowly and reached for the counter to steady herself.
It was nothing, she told herself.
It was always nothing.
At the office, the man worked as expected. Efficient. Focused. Dependable.
A colleague—one he tolerated—stopped by his desk, leaning casually against the partition. They spoke. Polite words.
Harmless remarks. The sort of conversation expected between professionals.
He nodded. Responded. Smiled.
When it ended, he excused himself and walked to the restroom.
The water ran cold.
He washed his hands once.
Then again.
And again.
Fingers scrubbed palm, palm scrubbed wrist. Harder than necessary. Longer than usual. As if something clung to him that soap alone could not remove.
He stared at his reflection above the sink.
The smile was still there.
It always was.
But today, it felt... Insufficient.
He straightened his tie. Once. Twice.
Adjusted the collar. Smoothed his hair.
The smile returned to its proper place.
He turned off the tap and left.
Across the village, in a quiet classroom, a lesson was underway.
The teacher spoke enthusiastically, demonstrating how different metals burned with different colors when exposed to flame. Sodium. Copper. Potassium. Each producing its expected hue.
When the next sample was introduced, the flame flickered.
For just a moment, the color seemed wrong.
Not black. Not dramatic.
Just… dull. Muted. As if the fire itself hesitated.
The students murmured.
The teacher cleared his throat and laughed lightly. "It must not have been cleaned properly." he said. "Sometimes impurities affect the reactions. Chemistry is tricky like that"
The class accepted the explanation.
All except One.
Ethan. The boy at the front of the room shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of a sharp sting at the base of his neck. He reached up instinctively, fingers brushing skin.
Nothing there.
The windows were closed. The air was still.
He lowered his hand slowly, heart beating just a little faster than before.
The flame burned on.
And in the Magpin household, everything continued exactly as it should.
For now.