"Truth doesn't scream. It repeats itself. Until someone listens."
The room was empty. But not silent.
The wind tapped against the window, making the curtain sway— as if someone had just passed through.
Marcos remained in the armchair, the diary still resting on the edge of the cold fireplace.
He stared at the portrait of the patriarch. Hard eyes. Absent smile. The same expression of someone who never answered a question— only replied with silence.
Marcos picked up the diary. Flipped through it slowly. The sentence was still there:
"She doesn't sleep in the upstairs room anymore. Said her father is still there. That he talks to her. That silence answers."
He closed the diary with care. Like someone sealing a coffin.
"If silence answers... then someone's been asking too many questions."
He stood up. His coat still damp from the walk in the garden. The scent of wet earth mixed with cheap perfume that refused to leave the air.
He walked to the window. The crushed leaves were still there. Broken branches. The trail of someone who left—or fled.
"Rubens..." he murmured. "Absent father. Dead nephew. And a car that drove off with no destination."
He turned slowly. The room felt smaller. As if secrets took up too much space.
Arthur entered without knocking. Sat on the couch like he owned the place.
"Gonna keep talking to yourself, or is this the start of your monologue?"
Marcos didn't answer. He just looked.
"Did your father leave before or after the body went cold?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"I don't know. I didn't see. I didn't ask."
"But you heard?"
"I heard the car. But around here, every sound feels suspicious. Even silence seems guilty."
Marcos stepped closer, diary still in hand.
"He wrote about you. Said you mocked things because you didn't know what to do with fear."
Arthur smiled—without meaning it.
"Fear's for people who still expect something. I just want this to be over."
"This? The investigation?"
"The performance."
Marcos looked at the patriarch's portrait.
"He was a good performer too. Right up until he died without saying a word."
Arthur stood. Walked to the fireplace. Looked at the diary.
"Planning to use that as a script?"
"Only if it rhymes with confession."
Arthur left the room without another word.
Marcos stayed. Alone. But not in silence.
The wind hit again. The curtain moved. The portrait seemed to stare back.
"Some things don't die. They just wait for someone to listen."
Marcos pressed the diary against his chest.
"Then listen. Because I didn't come here to silence anyone."
The hallway on the second floor felt narrower than before. Marcos climbed slowly, the steps creaking— as if protesting the visit.
Loud rock music blasted from the room on the left. Distorted guitar. Drums like punches. The vocalist screaming things no one wanted to hear.
Marcos stopped at the door. Knocked once. Nothing.
Knocked again. Harder.
"Helena," he said, without raising his voice. "I need to talk."
The music got louder. As if that was the answer.
Marcos rested his forehead against the door for a moment. The sound pulsed through the wood.
"I didn't come to comfort you. Or to accuse you. I just want to understand what your brother didn't have time to explain."
Silence. Then a muffled shout:
"Go away!"
Marcos didn't move.
"He wrote about you. Said you didn't listen. That you escaped into the volume."
The music stopped. Suddenly. Like someone had yanked the cord out of the rage.
"He wrote?"
"He did. And not just a little."
The door opened a crack. Helena appeared. Red eyes. Headphones hanging around her neck. The room behind her was a mess of clothes, torn posters, and dim light.
"He wrote too much. Spoke too little. Thought the world would understand if he left clues."
"And you? Did you understand?"
She hesitated. Then opened the door wider.
"Come in. But don't touch anything."
Marcos stepped inside. The room smelled of disorder and pain. In the corner, a backpack lay tossed aside. On the desk, an old cassette radio.
"Does this work?"
"Sometimes. He used it to record stuff. Voices. Thoughts. I don't know."
Marcos approached. Pressed the button. The tape spun. Static. Then the heir's voice:
"If someone's hearing this… it means silence failed."
Helena turned her face away. Marcos kept listening.
"The house speaks. But not with words. It speaks with scent, with sound, with absence. And someone's been listening too closely."
Marcos stopped the tape. Looked at Helena.
"You knew?"
She nodded. Slowly.
"But I thought it was just paranoia. He started acting strange. Said our father was still in the house. That our mother talked to him. That the butler was hiding things."
"And you?"
"I just wanted it all to stop. For the noise to be just music."
Marcos looked at the radio. Then at the backpack. A notebook was half-hidden, its edge torn.
"May I?"
Helena hesitated. Then nodded.
Marcos picked up the notebook. Flipped through it. Drawings. Scattered phrases. One stood out:
"If I die, it wasn't an accident. It was an answer."
He closed the notebook. Looked at Helena.
"You think he knew?"
"He always knew. He just didn't know who would let it happen."
Marcos stood. Walked to the door.
"Thank you."
Helena put her headphones back on. But didn't play any music.
Marcos descended the stairs, notebook in hand. The radio still echoed in his mind. The phrase repeated like a chorus:
"If someone's hearing this… it means silence failed."
In the living room, Arthur was back on the couch. Clara stood, as always. The butler remained still— as if awaiting a verdict.
Marcos tossed the notebook onto the table. The dry thud made everyone look.
"He knew. And he wrote. And he recorded. And no one listened."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"More paper? Planning an art exhibit?"
"I'm building a puzzle. And you're the pieces pretending not to fit."
Clara shrank back. The butler looked away.
Marcos stepped toward the fireplace. The patriarch's portrait looked darker. Or maybe the day was just growing heavier.
"He spoke of the perfume. The locked room. The footsteps. The mother who talks to the beyond. The sister who hides in sound. The father who left without looking back."
Arthur stood.
"My father didn't run. He just… doesn't know how to deal with this."
"And you?"
"I deal in my own way. Sarcasm's cheaper than therapy."
Marcos turned to Clara.
"You heard things. Felt fear. And thought it was just in your head."
She nodded. Slowly.
"But it wasn't. It was the house. It was the silence. It was what no one wanted to hear."
The butler cleared his throat.
"Sir… perhaps it would be best to wait for Mr. Rubens to return. He might be able to clarify—"
"Clarify?" He left before the body went cold. And no one knows where he went. That's not clarification. That's escape."
Arthur crossed his arms.
"And if he doesn't come back?"
Marcos looked at the portrait.
"Then the house will speak for him."
Silence.
Marcos sat in the armchair. The notebook and diary on the table. The radio still in his hands.
"He said that if he died, it wouldn't be an accident. It would be an answer."
Arthur stepped closer.
"An answer to what?"
"To everything that was ignored. To everything that was silenced. To everything you all pretended not to see."
Clara began to cry. Softly. Like someone who doesn't want to disturb even with pain.
The butler approached, hesitant.
"Sir… there's something you might need to know."
Marcos looked at him. The silence grew heavy.
"Speak."
"Mr. Rubens… before he left… he argued with his nephew. In the study. They said harsh things. The boy left in tears. And then… he was found dead."
Marcos stood.
"And you're only saying this now?"
"I… didn't think it was relevant."
"Relevant? It's the line between pain and guilt."
Arthur looked at the butler, then at Marcos.
"My father… he's not violent. But he has a way of killing without touching."
Marcos looked at the radio. Pressed the button. The tape spun. The heir's voice returned:
"If I die, it wasn't an accident. It was an answer."
Marcos looked at them all.
"The house is speaking. And you… you're finally starting to listen."
He turned to the patriarch's portrait.
"Because here… even the dead have something to say."
The wind hit the window. The curtain moved. Clara sobbed. Arthur fell silent. The butler lowered his head.
Marcos remained standing. The radio still playing. The tape spinning. The truth, at last, beginning to make noise.