She lay straight on the cold, tiled floor of the damp, dimly lit basement, her arms and feet spread on the floor. The air was thick with humidity, sticking to her skin. There was a stench of humid furniture and damp soil, sickening the head but she was just lying looking at the ceiling. The faint hum of the ceiling fan was breaking the oppressive silence, a sound so constant it had faded into the background of her awareness. Her gaze still fixed on the fan, its blades rotating in a slow, lazy rhythm.
One of the blades had caught a spider web. The delicate strands fluttered with every pass, a fragile dance in the stale air. Her eyes followed its movement obsessively, unable to look away.
One, two, three, four...
The numbers escaped her lips in a soft whisper, each word scraping against the dryness of her cracked lips. She didn't even realize she was counting at first. It was just a reflex, an unbidden rhythm that filled the void in her mind. She was counting unconsciously…
...ninety-five... one hundred... one hundred thirty...
Her voice trembled, the numbers faltering as her focus wavered.
"What the heck am I doing…" she mumbled silently and closed her eyes tightly, her brows knitting together as though the act of squeezing her eyelids shut could stop the relentless march of numbers in her head. She covered her eyes with her arm…
"I should stop counting," she muttered, her voice hoarse and barely audible. "No counting. No counting. No counting..."
But then it came again, like a stubborn echo: three... no counting... four... no counting... five...
Her breaths quickened, the numbers refusing to release her. With a sudden surge of determination, she pushed herself up from the floor, her palms scraping against the rough tiles. She turned her head rapidly, her eyes darting around the room in a frantic attempt to find something, anything to distract her.
Her gaze landed on a sheet draped haphazardly over a chair, all dusty and damp. The faded floral print seemed out of place in the bleakness of the basement. She crawled toward it, her fingers trembling as she grabbed it and pulled it close. The fabric felt rough against her fingertips, and she traced the outline of a large, blooming flower printed on it. Her hand drifted to the fringed edge, the threads hanging loose like hair of a little girl waiting to get combed and put into a braid.
She began twisting one of the fringes absentmindedly. The repetitive motion soothed her. For a moment, the chaos in her mind subsided. She smiled faintly, a flicker of triumph lighting up her weary face.
But the victory was short-lived. The voice in her head returned, insistent and unrelenting.
"One, two, three... one, two, three... one, two, three..."
She realized she was twisting each fringe exactly three times. The pattern was unintentional at first, but now it had become deliberate. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to stop, but her fingers betrayed her, continuing the motion as though possessed by their own will.
"One, two, three... one, two, three," the voice chanted in her mind, louder and louder.
"Stop it!" she shouted aloud, her voice cracking. She flung the sheet across the room with a sharp motion, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath.
Then she pulled it again to herself… and started twisting them again…
"One, two, three... one, two, three," twisting all the fringes she started counted them…
"One…. Seven...twenty... there were twenty fringes on one side of sheet
"Four sides and twenty fringes on one side… that means there will be 80 fringes on this sheet…" she thought out loud … and then pushed the sheet away with regret about what do to next …
She lay back down on the floor, her cheek pressing against the cold, unyielding tiles.
"What if they are not eighty?"
"What if there are more than twenty fringes on any of the one side or less than twenty fringes"
"Nah… I am just thinking too much … they are EIGHTY"
"They are eighty …"
"Eighty …"
"Eighty …"
She pulled the sheet again with irritation and tiredness and started counting …
A smile passed her lips… "I knew they might not be eighty…"
and then she started to untwist a few fringes and made them into smaller braids making them into a total of eighty fringes… .
She lied on the floor again … a breath of trumph came out of her mouth …
But then the pattern of the bricks caught her eye—small, rectangular, and neatly aligned in rows. Her gaze traced their symmetry, and the counting began again before she could stop it.
One, two, three, four, five...
There were five bricks in each row. She counted horizontally, then vertically, trying to calculate the total. Twenty-six.
The number made her frown. It didn't sit right. Twenty-six wasn't even—it wasn't orderly. They should have been twenty-five or thirty. A proper grid. Perfectly divisible.
She pushed herself up again, her movements jerky and impatient. Dragging herself toward the wall, she ran her fingers along the grout lines, feeling their rough texture. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted tiny cracks splintering across the surface. Her finger traced each crack, her lips moving soundlessly.
Twenty-eight... twenty-nine...
Her breath hitched. The thirtieth crack was missing. It had to be there. She pressed closer to the wall, her nose almost brushing the cold surface inhaling the muddy scent of the bricks, as her eyes searched frantically for another imperfection, another line to complete the count.
Maybe if she added the grout lines? Maybe that would make sense. She reached out again, her hand trembling as it moved over the wall. Before she could begin her absurd task, a distant sound reached her ears.
"KyrAAA..."
The voice was faint, echoing from somewhere far above. Someone was calling her.
She froze, her fingers hovering midair. The voice came again, clearer this time. Her ear sharp as it was even heard the breathlessness of the the voice calling her name…
"Kyra!?"