The Eighth Room

Part 2 —The First Flicker

The night after Lucy and Iva arrived ended softly, the way most nights did in the house. The newcomers unpacked. The old residents returned to their routines as if nothing strange had shifted in the walls.

And morning slipped into the way it always did — softly, lazily, almost like the house itself wasn’t ready to wake up yet. It had been a week since Lucy and Iva arrived, and by now their footsteps blended naturally with the creaks and quiet rhythms of the place.

Leon was already at the dining table, posture sharp, coffee in one hand as he went through emails. Ren just returned from his early coaching session, tossing his hoodie onto a chair and groaning like the sun personally offended him by rising. Marco drifted through the dining area with a soft yawn, fixing his messy hair and deciding what his breakfast would be today.

Alex was at his usual spot near garden window balancing his laptop on knees, headphones halfway on, muttering about unstable markets like they were jumping up and down. Milo on the other end of dining table was munching his breakfast like a sloth on the verge of hibernation, blinking so slowly it felt like each eyelid drop needed a recharge. No one questioned it — they just assumed it was typical Milo energy — unaware he’d spent the entire night doodling. Only Leon and Alex were aware.

Upstairs, the newcomers had settled into the house’s tempo:

Lucy in her room whispered into her phone camera, sunlight hitting her just right,

“Day eight, still loving the vibe.”

She looked like she could turn anything into a scene. And next to hers room. Iva sat cross-legged with her tablet, editing a campaign with her precise, calculating eyes.

The day moved forward with its usual rhythm.

Marco spent the afternoon “quality-testing” his own recipes — which really just meant eating lunch twice. Leon passed by once, paused, and said with the utmost seriousness, “You do realize you're the only chef who gains weight from his own restaurant.” Marco just grinned, mouth full, utterly unbothered.

Ren came back from outside, found Lucy setting up a ring light in the hallway. He squinted at her like she'd just declared war on personal space. “Do you have to do that here?”

“Natural lighting is a myth,” she replied without looking up. “This is science.”

He muttered something under his breath and stomped off. She smiled at her phone screen.

Even Milo, half-asleep as usual, managed to be part of the chaos. Leon found him napping in the garden, sprawled under a tree like he'd melted into the grass. “Don't you have work to do?”

Milo cracked one eye open. “Freelance means free to lance whenever.”

Leon sighed and walked away. Milo went back to sleep.

In Evening everyone ended up in the living room without planning it. Marco sprawled on the couch with a bowl of snacks. Ren flipped through channels, frowning at every single one. Leon adjusted a picture frame. Alex sat near the window, still chasing numbers. Milo had claimed the rug, one arm over his face. Lucy scrolled through her phone by the doorway. Iva sat in the armchair, tablet in hand, observing more than participating.

It was comfortable. Routine. And then the lights flickered. Just once. A soft blink, like the house had closed its eyes for a second.

Everyone paused.

Marco looked up mid-chew. Ren frowned at the ceiling. Leon's hand froze on the frame. Lucy tilted her head. “Uh… did that just happen?”

The lights stayed steady.

“Old wiring,” Leon said, straightening his collar a fraction too neatly. “Probably nothing.”

Milo cracked one eye open, looked at the ceiling, then closed it again. “Maybe the lights just needed a nap too.”

No one laughed. Lucy smiled a little. The moment passed.

The flickering didn't stop there. It continued for next few day.

It happened again throughout the house. The kitchen lights blinked while Marco was cooking. The hallway dimmed for a second while Lucy was mid-shoot. The living room wavered while Ren was complaining about something.

Leon tried to troubleshoot it himself — printed diagrams, muttered about electrical loads, refused to call anyone because surely he could figure it out. Ren just got more annoyed every time it happened. Marco checked the fridge obsessively, convinced his ingredients were moments away from spoiling. Alex calculated how much an electrician would cost versus how long they could reasonably ignore the problem. Lucy found it atmospheric at first, then just irritating when it kept ruining her lighting.

Iva watched everyone's reactions with quiet interest, cataloging how each person handled inconvenience. Milo didn't seem bothered at all. He napped through most of it.

And on one usual night, when most of the lights were off. Doors closed. The house slipped into its familiar quiet.

Milo was, as usual, awake — sitting alone in the living room, a doodling book resting on the couch beside him, pencil moving in slow, lazy strokes. Shapes. Shadows. Lines that didn’t mean much to anyone — including him. It was nothing more than a way to drift away from chaotic day. This was his time, when the house finally exhaled and let him be. As sleep began to pull at him, it happened.

A spark. Small. Sharp. From the fuse box near the hallway.

He ignored it.

Then another flicker slipped through the edges of the old metal panel.

He sighed, pushed himself up, and made his lazy way toward it. He crouched in front of the fuse box, squinting at the seams. A faint sparking sound hummed beneath the metal.

To be continued.