One Year Ago…
"Tonight… you'll stay in that storage room, Sombat."
His father's voice was low, harsh—cold as a rusted blade slicing through the heart. It was not a suggestion. It was a sentence.
Sombat resisted, but he was no match for his father's strength. He was dragged into the small storage room—cramped, damp, and dark. The faint light from outside was swallowed whole by the gloom. The air reeked of old dust and rotting wood, thick enough to choke on.
Bang!
The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed like the last nail hammered into a coffin.
Then—silence.
Dense, oppressive silence, almost… alive.
"Dad! Let me out!"
Sombat shouted, fists pounding against the door in panic. No answer. Only the cold indifference of emptiness replied.
He slid to the floor, hugging his knees tightly. The ground was icy. His heart pounded in confusion and fear. Breath came in short, ragged gasps—
And then… something broke the silence.
Tiny footsteps.
But not human ones.
A rat skittered silently past his legs, its touch sending a shiver down his spine.
Sombat jerked back in alarm.
Thud!
Something fell from the shelves above.
The sound came from the upper tiers, where the shadows were thickest.
He squinted upward, then hesitantly reached out.
His fingers touched an old wooden box—
It was cold. Deathly cold, down to the bone.
Sombat slowly opened the lid.
The wood groaned softly, like the breath of something ancient waking from slumber.
Inside lay a faded book, handwritten in delicate script.
The musical notes inside had long blurred into the dust of time.
Beside it rested a black flute.
Still. Silent. Ominous.
As if waiting.
For someone.
Brave enough… to play it again.
And the moment Sombat's fingers brushed against it—
The air changed.
Time seemed to stop.
The darkness began to stir.
Cold.
Heavy.
Utterly silent… yet something moved around him.
A whisper—
Faint, but razor-clear.
It wasn't from here.
It echoed inside his mind… distinct.
It was calling him—
To step through a door.
A door no one had ever returned from.