Chapter 1 – Peter

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Chapter 1 – Peter

The night had no stars.

Only a stretch of black sky that looked like spilled ink, thick and endless, covering the small town like a suffocating blanket. Inside a narrow old house, one single window glowed faintly yellow — Peter’s room. The curtains fluttered in the wind, torn at the edges, whispering like ghosts in the dark.

Peter sat on his bed, his back against the cold wall. His hands were pressed against his ears, but the echoes still found him — the voices from the next room, the sound of glass breaking, his stepfather’s anger bouncing off the walls like thunder.

He had stopped crying long ago.

Tears didn’t work here.

The blackness of the night wasn’t only outside; it lived inside him too — crawling under his skin, sitting quietly in his chest. Every day felt like another page in a story that he didn’t write but was forced to live.

He looked at the mirror across the room — cracked in the middle, just like his heart. The reflection showed him a boy who looked older than his age, his eyes hollow, his lips pale, a bruise of sleeplessness under his eyes. The walls were full of faded posters he once loved — superheroes, stars, and dreams. But dreams were useless here.

Downstairs, the laughter turned sharp. His stepmother’s voice cut through the silence like a blade — sweet to others, but venom to him. “He’s useless,” she said. “A burden.”

Peter closed his eyes. The words didn’t hurt anymore; they just repeated like a broken song. Sometimes, he wanted to scream. Sometimes, he wanted to vanish into the blackness outside the window, let the wind carry him somewhere — anywhere — far from this house, far from their eyes.

Lightning flashed suddenly — for a second, the room turned white. In that moment, Peter saw everything — the peeling paint, the dust, the emptiness — and then darkness swallowed it all again. The storm had begun.

He stood up slowly, his bare feet cold on the floor. He walked to the window and opened it wider. The rain came in, soft at first, then wild. Each drop felt alive, each gust of wind a whisper calling his name. The town lights flickered in the distance — but his house remained dark, except for that one dim bulb hanging above his bed, swinging slightly with the wind.

He whispered to himself, “I’m still here.”

It was not a promise — it was a reminder.

Peter’s memories came back in flashes — his real mother’s voice, soft and warm like sunlight; her lullaby that faded too soon. He was only eight when she left the world. Then came the new parents — new house, new rules, no love. Every kindness they gave came with a shadow. Every smile hid a lie.

Sometimes, Peter wrote in his old notebook, filling its pages with secrets and thoughts he could never say aloud. He called it The Black Book. Tonight, he opened it again. His handwriting trembled, ink spreading like dark veins on the page.

> “If I vanish, will anyone notice?

If I scream in the dark, will the walls answer?

Maybe the night is kinder than they are.”

He stopped writing when thunder roared again. For a second, it sounded like applause — the sky clapping for his pain.

Peter looked around his room — everything felt unreal, like a dream painted in shadows. The corners seemed darker than before, the air heavier. Somewhere deep inside, he felt the house itself was alive — breathing, watching.

He whispered, “Are you there?”

No answer. Only the rain.

But he felt something. A coldness behind him, close to his neck. He turned — nothing. Yet the bulb flickered again, slower this time, as if reacting to something unseen. The wind pushed the door open with a creak, long and low.

Peter froze. His heart pounded, but he didn’t move. It wasn’t fear — it was something deeper, a strange calmness that told him he was no longer alone. Maybe the dark had finally noticed him.

He took one step forward. The hallway beyond was pitch-black, and the walls looked like they were breathing. A whisper came from the darkness — soft, almost gentle — like someone calling his name.

“Peter…”

He stepped back, eyes wide.

“Who’s there?”

No answer. Just rain, thunder, and the heartbeat in his ears. He wanted to close the door, but part of him didn’t. Maybe this was what he’d been waiting for — something to end the silence.

He sat back on the bed, the notebook still open, the ink smudged by raindrops. He wrote one last line:

> “The dark knows me better than they ever will.”

The bulb flickered once more — and then went out.

Silence swallowed everything.

Outside, the rain kept falling, washing away the sound of the house, the laughter, and maybe even Peter’s voice.

Only the night remained — wide, empty, endless — carrying the story of a boy who lived inside a black scene, waiting for someone to see him.

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