Prologue: The Last Winter

The snow fell silently, covering the ground with a thick, white blanket. Outside, the wind howled through the bare trees, making the branches creak as if they were bones breaking. It was a cold night, one of those that seem to stretch on longer than usual, when the whole world sinks into a heavy calm, as if something were about to happen.

Inside the house, a small boy curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. His parents weren't there. They had left a few hours earlier, promising to return soon. He didn’t like being alone on winter nights, but he wasn’t completely alone. His faithful companion, a white cat, slept curled up on his lap, its chest rising and falling with each peaceful breath.

Everything seemed calm. Until it wasn’t.

The cat suddenly tensed. Its ears perked up, and its small body shivered with a chill. It opened its eyes wide and sat up, fixing its gaze on the door to the dark hallway. Its tail bristled, and a low sound, a contained growl, came from its throat.

The boy felt it too. He wasn’t sure what it was, but the air had grown thicker. As if the house, suddenly, was breathing differently. As if something, in some corner, had just woken up.

And then he heard it.

A distant sound. A barely audible squeak, like something scraping against the wooden floor.

The boy swallowed and pushed the blanket aside. He stood up cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked toward the hallway. The light from the living room lamp barely illuminated the entrance, leaving the rest shrouded in shadows.

Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe a window left slightly open.

But the cat remained there, motionless, its back arched, eyes fixed on the darkness.

And then, the front door opened.

Not with violence. Not with a crash.

It opened with a faint creak, as if someone had patiently slid the lock, with the calm of someone who knows no one is waiting for them.

The silhouette appeared in the doorway, wrapped in shadows. A tall, thin man, his face hidden by the dimness.

His movements were slow, precise, as if he had been there before. As if he knew every corner of the house.

The boy felt the air stick in his throat. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t scream.

The man took a step forward. Then another.

Something glinted in his hand.

The knife reflected the dim light of the lamp, cold and sharp, waiting to be used.

The boy backed away, his eyes fixed on the shadow that advanced toward him.

He didn’t understand why it was there. He didn’t understand what it wanted.

He only knew he had to run.

But his feet wouldn’t respond.

The cat was the first to move.

With a fierce meow, it lunged at the dark figure, sinking claws and teeth into its flesh.

A growl of pain and fury shattered the stillness of the house.

The knife fell to the floor with a dull thud.

The boy finally reacted.

He turned and ran.

He ran without thinking, his heart pounding in his ears.

He rushed up the stairs, feeling the cold steps beneath his bare feet.

He locked himself in his room and shoved the dresser against the door with all his strength.

His breath was ragged. His body trembled.

Outside, the sound of a struggle.

A sharp thud.

Silence.

The boy wanted to think that his friend had won.

He wanted to believe it was over.

But then, a cold whisper came through the door.

—Open the door…

The knuckles rapped softly against the wood.

Like a game.

As if the man wanted him to believe everything was fine.

—I know you’re in there…

The boy backed into the wall, eyes wide open.

No.

No.

No.

The doorknob slowly turned.

The wood creaked.

And the darkness entered the room.

When the parents came home, they found the door ajar.

The icy wind seeped through the threshold, dragging snow inside.

Everything was silent.

Too silent.

They called for their son.

No one answered.

They hurried through the house, fear choking them.

And at the top of the stairs, they found the door to his room open.

Inside, only the echo of what had happened remained.

But the house kept another secret.

The body of the intruder lay in the hallway.

His face frozen in an expression of horror.

His skin, pale as snow, was covered in marks.

Deep scratches, bite marks.

As if something had attacked him mercilessly.

But no one was there.

There were no footprints to explain how he had fallen.

Only silence.

And the feeling that, though he no longer breathed, he was still present.

The clock on the wall read eleven fifteen when the house was empty.

But not completely.

Because, over time, people began to notice unsettling events.

The lights in the house turned on by themselves.

Whispers that seemed to float in the darkness.

Some claimed that, on certain nights, they could see the figure of a child in the hallway mirror.

Small.

Silent.

Looking through the window, waiting.

And others...

Others said that sometimes, in the depth of the night, they could hear the meow of a cat.

A sad sound, lost among the echoes of what once was.

And of what never fully left.