Symphony of loops

  The alarm clock struck six, and for a brief moment, Sylvain wondered if it had always sounded this hollow. Sylvain woke slowly, his eyes adjusting to the dim light seeping through the heavy curtains. The morning was grey, muted, as though the sun had given up trying to pierce through the layers of dust and grime coating the grand room. The air in his spacious chamber felt cold, lifeless—just like the rest of the house. The Flamesworth estate loomed around him, vast and silent. Even in its grandeur, it held a strange kind of emptiness—a waiting silence, as though the house itself had grown tired of waiting for something that would never arrive. The weight of unfulfilled promises hung heavy in the stillness, unseen but palpable. Sylvain swung his legs over the edge of his bed, the cold floor sending a shiver up his spine. The room was expansive, but sterile—a grand space stripped of any warmth. The walls were lined with portraits, faded with time, faces long forgotten but still etched into the fabric of the family's past. Their eyes seemed to follow him, silent witnesses to the slow decay of their once mighty dynasty. He rose and moved through the hallways, the soft creak of the floor beneath his bare feet echoing in the vast emptiness. The house seemed to hold its breath as he passed—servants darting out of sight, heads bowed low, as though pretending he wasn't there. The air was cool, weighted with silence, broken only by the occasional distant clatter of footsteps or the faint murmur of conversations behind closed doors.  The grand staircase loomed ahead, its banister polished to perfection but cracked with age. Paintings hung along the walls, once proud symbols of wealth and influence—now faded and dusty, each brushstroke dulled by neglect. They were reminders of what had once been, but those days felt like distant memories, lost beneath the weight of time. Sylvain's mind was scattered, hollow. He didn't care if he was seen as a failure. The world—and this family—offered nothing but more pain, more rejection. Yet, beneath that hollow facade, a mind sharper than most realized simmered beneath the surface—always calculating, always observing. "They don't see what I see. They never do." Every morning brought more tests—another round of meaningless challenges, of pointless drills meant to gauge something they would never understand. It didn't matter how well he did—there was no winning in this house. To them, success only led to more expectations, more pressure. Fail, and he was swallowed by the shadows again. Succeed, and they would simply demand more. "Fail, and I disappear into the shadows again. Succeed, and they just push harder."  As he moved through the estate, something felt... off. Subtle oddities crept into his surroundings—things that didn't quite add up. Clocks. They hung on every wall, ticking louder than they should—each hand frozen, stubborn in place, as though the mechanisms themselves were mocking the slow crawl of time. They seemed to whisper, "Waiting." As though something was about to happen—something that always came back around. Sylvain wandered past a hallway where two servants spoke in hushed voices, their heads leaning close as if caught in a private discussion. As he walked by, fragments of their conversation reached his ears—a familiar feeling washed over him, like something he had heard before, but faintly different this time. "...Feels like it's happening again. Like we've done this already..."  "Same places, same faces... but it doesn't quite add up. It's like... déjà vu, but stronger. Like we've seen this before—again and again." Sylvain paused slightly, his brow furrowing. The words sounded familiar—too familiar—but the way they spoke left something just out of reach. Could they feel it too? "I suppose the mundane cold life of the elites can get the poor servants as well...",he muttered under his breath, brushing the excessive thoughts.  He sits by the window at night usually, staring into the distant horizon—where the land stretches endlessly, but nothing feels truly alive. The sky above is blank, stretched too thin as if holding something back. His thoughts often drift to his mother, remembering how she was left to die without care, her fevered face hollow and alone. The servants whispered that it was pointless, that she wasn't worth saving—just like the whispers about him.  "They didn't save her because she wasn't worth it. I'm not worth it either." The house, silent in the moonlight, feels heavier at night. Cold walls that seem to breathe in the stillness, a place where warmth is reserved only for those who earn it, those deemed valuable by a family that never saw him as more than a mistake.Later that night, he moves silently through the dim corridors, flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the walls. The house sleeps, but Sylvain can't. He's drawn toward the testing hall, where the remnants of the day's exams still linger. His footsteps echo softly on the cold, polished floor as he weaves through the shadows, careful not to disturb the servants or the few guards that patrol the grounds. He reaches the entrance to the testing area—dimly lit, filled with scattered desks and stray papers from the day's failed attempts. It's silent except for the occasional shift in movement as the last students, all members of the Flamesworth family, pack up their belongings.  "Calculus, again," he mutters, his voice barely more than a whisper, a bitter familiarity sinking in.  Sylvain glances around, his sharp eyes catching something odd. A crumpled sheet of paper lays half-hidden beneath one of the desks—sloppy handwriting, numbers carelessly jotted down, mistakes glaringly obvious. He sighs, an air of mild annoyance flickering in his gaze. "Look at this... careless. As though no one even cares enough to get it right. It's not just wrong—it's... wasted effort." His fingers instinctively reach out, straightening the paper. As he begins to scrutinise it, his brows furrow slightly. Something about this feels...wrong. He leans closer, tracing the numbers with his finger, muttering softly under his breath.  "As if they didn't even take this seriously. Like it was already destined to fail."  A faint smile tugs at his lips—something cold and calculating. He can't help it. He knows the answers, knows where the mistakes lie. And in this moment, with nothing else to do, he starts to correct them. His movements are fluid, almost bored, yet precise—he corrects the errors as if they were second nature. The flaws are so glaringly easy to fix.The next morning, the testing hall buzzes with activity. Students, eager and nervous, hand in their results, their faces tense with expectation. The air hums with tension, but Sylvain moves through it all like a shadow—silent, unnoticed, slipping into his usual seat at the back of the room.  Moments pass before the teacher, a stern man with tired eyes, begins collecting the papers. One by one, the submissions are placed on his desk—each student hopeful that this time, they'll be the ones praised. The teacher flips through them slowly, his eyes scanning for mistakes.  Then, he pauses. One paper catches his attention—a marked improvement from the others. The handwriting... it's neat, too neat. It looks clean, calculated—like it came from someone who actually understood the material, not just someone filling in the blanks.  The teacher picks it up, holding it in his hands. His brow furrows.  "Jack Flamesworth," he mutters under his breath, reading the name scrawled at the top. But there's something off about it—too confident, too refined.  He glances over at Jack, the opportunistic student who always tries to claim credit for others' work, a smirk already forming on his face. But something about this feels different.The teacher's eyes narrow.  "Jack, did you...?"  Jack shrugs, playing it cool. "It's my best yet, sir. Look at the results. Best one in the class."  The teacher's gaze sharpens. He recognizes the handwriting. It's too polished, too deliberate—not Jack's usual clumsy scrawling. A faint flicker of suspicion crosses his face. "Unlikely," he mutters under his breath. "Very unlikely."  The students murmur around him, watching as the teacher's attention lingers longer than usual. But then, his demeanour shifts back to its usual sternness. He clears his throat, shifting gears smoothly.  "Very well. I'll need this paper to be verified." He tucks it into a folder without further comment, turning away from the crowd. The moment passes quickly, but something stirs in the air—a shift that Sylvain senses, even from the back of the room.  Later that evening, Sylvain finds himself alone again in his room. The night is quiet, save for the distant tick of the oversized clock in the hallway. He sits by the window, staring into the cold, desolate landscape—the house feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something. His mind drifts to the moment earlier in the testing hall. The strange, unfamiliar feeling that crept into his chest when the teacher had noticed. It wasn't pride—it was something... different. A spark—something that felt foreign to him,he felt complimented from the teacher's astonishment,but for him that feeling had no place in this lifeless house.  "Why did I even bother?" he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. "It means nothing. It always means nothing." But still, his thoughts circle back to the paper—the precision, the calm detachment with which he had corrected the mistakes. It hadn't felt like an accident—more like instinct, something deeply ingrained. He pushes it aside, annoyed at himself for dwelling on it.The next morning, Sylvain makes his way to the dining hall, where the usual silence fills the room. The grand table stretches before him, rich with food that feels wasted on the hungry eyes that stare at it. His father, seated at the head of the table, is speaking to a group of other high-ranking Flamesworth members—their voices blending into an inaudible buzz that dulls in Sylvain's ears. He sits down, eyes flicking over the table. The few members already present have striking orange eyes—eyes that gleam faintly in the dim light. These are the ones who have been through the Ceremony—the ritual that marks them as true heirs, destined for leadership. The others at the table—servants, low-ranking kin, and those still considered "unworthy"—don't have the orange yet. Their eyes are dull, clouded—nothing more than a reflection of the blood they carry, but not yet fully claimed by the Flamesworth legacy. Sylvain's gaze lingers for a moment too long on the high members, his fingers tightening slightly around his fork. There's a subtle arrogance in the way they carry themselves—eyes sharp and cold, like they expect obedience without question. He's seen this same look his entire life, but now it feels heavier, more oppressive.  As he fills his plate, he overhears quiet murmurs between two of the servants passing by. "...They've been talking about it, you know. Those strange things happening with the clocks lately. Some of them—saying they've had... deja vu. More often than usual." Sylvain stiffens slightly, his hand hesitating over the fork. He pretends not to listen, but his mind immediately latches onto the words.  "Deja vu... what does that even mean?"  He glances subtly toward the other servants, but they go about their duties, voices low enough that it feels more like idle chatter than anything important. Still, something gnaws at him—an unease, like this is something that has been lingering beneath the surface for some time.Later that evening, as Sylvain retreats to his room, the house feels even quieter than before. He stares at the flickering candlelight, watching shadows dance across the walls. His thoughts swirl—disconnected pieces, memories of the paper, the strange feeling from the test, and now the murmur of the servants.Suddenly, something cold twists inside him—something that doesn't feel like coincidence."Deja vu," he mutters, repeating the words under his breath. "What does it mean...?"The silence presses down on him, but there's no escape. He knows deep down that something is off—something too subtle, too strange, yet not entirely unfamiliar. He sits by the window once more, gazing into the vast, empty horizon. The wind whispers faintly, brushing against the glass—almost like it's waiting too.  "Time doesn't move here. It circles, waiting."