THE SECRET AGENT'S DIARY

CHAPTER TWO: THE MANSION

Blyanna's POV

Ilang araw pa lang akong nasa mansyon, pero pakiramdam ko’y buwan na ang lumipas. Every corner of this house felt too deliberate—too quiet, too smooth, too untouched. Kahit saan ako tumingin, may mga mamahaling gamit na para bang hindi ko dapat hawakan. Even the air smelled unfamiliar, parang isang lugar na laging nagpapanggap na masaya kahit hindi naman talaga.

The silence in this mansion wasn’t peaceful—it was practiced.

“Ate Blyanna, come here!” sigaw ni Cianna mula sa hallway. Barefoot siya, wearing this frilly pink dress, running toward me like she had all the innocence I’d lost long ago.

I tried to smile, but my lips twitched instead.

She tugged at my hand. “You haven’t seen the sunroom yet! You’ll like it there. It’s warm.”

Sunroom. I barely even understood what that meant. Pero pinilit kong sumabay sa kanya. I didn’t want to seem rude… or suspicious. Kahit na sa loob ko, may boses na paulit-ulit na nagrereklamo—Why is everyone pretending this is normal? Why do they keep smiling like this is real life?

As we entered the sunroom, light spilled from the floor-to-ceiling windows like golden water. The plants were lined in perfect order, ang mga bulaklak ay parang inukit sa ganda. Too perfect.

“This used to be Mommy's favorite room,” Cianna said, twirling as she tiptoed between pots. “But she said it’s yours now too.”

Mine?

“I don’t even know what to do with rooms like this,” I murmured.

“What do you mean?”

I forced a chuckle. “Never mind.”

Later that afternoon, Amairis knocked gently on my bedroom door. She didn’t enter right away, which I appreciated. “Can I come in?” her voice was calm and low, soft but composed.

“Yes,” I said.

She stepped in, bringing a tray of sliced apples and warm tea. “You didn’t eat much at lunch,” she said while placing the tray on my bedside table.

I looked away. “I wasn’t very hungry.”

“Sabi ni Cianna you’re not sleeping well either.”

I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I kept waking up expecting to be back at the orphanage? That every time I closed my eyes, I feared I’d wake up and none of this would be real?

Amairis sat on the edge of the bed, her posture straight. She looked older than twenty-five—not because of age, but because of the burden she seemed to carry. Her eyes, kahit tahimik, ay puno ng pag-aalala.

“Don’t force yourself to adjust too quickly,” she said. “This is your home now, but I understand if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

“Why are you all being so kind?” I asked before I could stop myself. My voice cracked slightly. “You don’t even know me.”

For a second, her expression hardened. Then she softened again and looked down, fingers brushing her own arm.

“Because we’ve all needed saving once,” she said quietly. “And someone chose to believe in us, too.”

That night, habang nakahiga ako sa kama, I traced the outline of the chandelier above. Hindi ako makatulog. The sheets smelled like roses—expensive, unfamiliar. Walang kahit anong katulad nito sa kinagisnan ko.

Tumayo ako at binuksan ang bintana. The wind outside was quiet. Too quiet.

I looked down at the gardens. May nakita akong anino—someone walking. Hindi ko makilala, pero tila lalaki. He had broad shoulders and walked like he owned the night.

Napaatras ako.

Then, a soft knock.

I turned. Cianna again. Holding a stuffed bunny and yawning.

“Can I sleep here?” she asked.

“Why?”

“Because you’re scared. And I am too sometimes.”

I nodded.

She climbed into bed beside me and whispered, “This house doesn’t like silence. You’ll see. It talks in other ways.”

I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

But she had already closed her eyes.

---

The next morning, I wandered through the east hallway. Paintings lined the walls—family portraits, old people I didn’t recognize. Lahat sila may kaparehong tingin sa mata: something hidden. I didn’t know what. But it made my skin crawl.

In the corner was a painting covered in a dusty cloth. Parang may ayaw ipakita. I reached for the cloth, hesitating. I lifted it slowly—

“Don’t touch that.”

I froze.

Travest.

He was standing near the stairwell, arms crossed. “Some doors in this house are meant to stay closed.”

I let go of the cloth. “What is it?”

“Nothing you should worry about.” He walked over and lowered his voice. “This place looks like gold outside. But trust me, Blyanna… everything good here is balanced by something darker.”

Bumilis ang t***k ng puso ko.

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. He just walked away, leaving me staring at the covered portrait.

---

That evening, dinner was served in the grand dining hall. Mahaba ang lamesa, parang hindi para sa pamilya kundi para sa royal ball. Everyone was in their assigned seats. Mom was at the head of the table, looking regal, elegant.

“Blyanna,” she said with a soft smile. “How are you adjusting?”

I glanced at the perfect cutlery, the perfect plates, the perfect everything.

“I’m… getting used to it, mom,” I replied.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said kindly. “I know you feel like a guest. But I hope, in time, you’ll allow yourself to feel like a daughter.”

I almost choked on my drink.

Daughter?

I just nodded, not trusting my voice.

---

Later, when everyone had gone to sleep, I stood at the top of the stairs, watching the chandelier sway ever so slightly, even when there was no wind.

Something about this house was alive.

And I wasn’t sure if it loved me… or was waiting to swallow me whole.

The next few days passed in a daze.

I tried to fall into their rhythm—to smile back when Cianna laughed, to eat what was placed in front of me, to say "thank you" every time someone offered help.

But deep inside, I was floating. Walang pundasyon ang lahat. Parang lumulutang lang ako sa loob ng bahay na hindi ko lubos na maintindihan.

Mornings at the mansion began early.

By 6 a.m., the staff were already awake. I would hear faint movements sa hallway—cleaning, trays clinking, muffled voices behind doors. The Montreal family didn’t eat breakfast together. Instead, trays were delivered individually. Mine always had hot chocolate, scrambled eggs, fruits na parang hindi galing sa Pilipinas.

One morning, as I sat quietly by the balcony with my untouched food, I saw Amairis again—walking alone in the garden, dressed in black, barefoot, with a book tucked under one arm. Her back was straight, but there was always something heavy in the way she walked. Like someone always watching, always thinking, always preparing.

I wanted to ask her things.

But every time I tried, my throat closed.

Later that same day, habang tahimik akong naglalakad sa hallway, I ended up in a part of the house I’d never seen before. The wallpaper was darker here. The paintings were older. The air smelled like cedar and something else—lumang alaala. I passed by a locked room with a brass doorknob shaped like a lion's head.

Then I heard it.

A voice.

Male. Low. Sharp.

“I told you she’s not ready.”

Another voice responded. Softer. Woman. “She doesn’t need to be ready. She just needs to feel safe.”

There was a pause. Then the man hissed again, “That’s a mistake. If she finds out—”

The door clicked. I stepped back, heart racing.

I turned and quickly walked away before anyone could see me. Hindi ko man nakita kung sino ang nasa loob, pero kilala ko ang boses. It was Altair Montreal, the father. And that… that was Margaux, mom.

They were talking about me.

That night, Amairis entered my room without knocking.

She was holding a small pouch.

“Come with me,” she said.

“Where?”

“To the west tower.”

I followed her quietly, our steps soft against the carpet. The west wing was rarely used, according to Cianna. That part of the mansion was cold, shadowed, and held the oldest parts of the house—original furniture, unused fireplaces, and dusty chandeliers.

We reached a small room filled with mirrors—different shapes, sizes, and designs. Sa bawat salamin, may tila kakaibang aura. Not eerie. Just… forgotten.

Amairis handed me the pouch. “Open it.”

I did. Inside was a silver necklace with a single black stone.

“Ano ’to?”

“It was mine,” she said. “Now it’s yours.”

I looked at her, puzzled. “Why?”

She shrugged, but her voice was tight. “Because you’re here. And this place… it remembers people who wear that.”

I didn’t know what she meant. I didn’t know if I wanted to.

The next few days, Cianna kept trying to include me in her routines. Coloring books. Puppet shows. Pretend tea parties.

“Do you want to see the music room?” she asked one afternoon.

“Is it allowed?”

She giggled. “Everything’s allowed if Mama Margaux’s not home.”

The music room was on the third floor. Dusty. Grand. Inside was a massive piano, polished and ancient-looking.

“Kuya Travest used to play,” Cianna whispered.

“He plays?”

“Not anymore,” she said sadly. “Not since the accident.”

My brows drew together. “Accident?”

She nodded, but her lips pressed shut like she said too much.

That evening, I heard voices again. Downstairs, near the garden entrance.

Amairis and Travest.

“I told you she’s smart. She’ll ask questions soon,” Amairis said.

“She already is,” Travest replied. “She looked at the covered portrait.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” He sighed. “But if she keeps digging, she’ll find out.”

I crept away before they noticed.

What would I find out?

---

One morning, I found a notebook under my pillow.

It wasn’t mine.

Plain black leather. When I opened it, there were no names inside. But the handwriting was precise, delicate. Full of lists. Observations. Sketches of hallways and corners of the mansion.

“Hidden passage, behind the second library’s shelf—loose brick on the right side.”

“Why is the basement always locked on weekends?”

“Amairis lied about the red door.”

I slammed it shut.

Someone had been keeping track.

And somehow… they wanted me to know.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I left my room quietly, moving through the corridor like a shadow. The mansion was dark, but not empty. The walls creaked. A clock chimed faintly in the east hall.

Then I heard it again—whispers. This time, near the library.

I followed the sound until I reached a door slightly ajar.

Inside, Travest sat by the fire, alone, his head down.

“I know you’re there,” he said without looking up.

I stepped in. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

He turned to me, eyes shadowed. “You’re not like the others. You feel things.”

I didn’t respond.

After a pause, he asked, “Has the house spoken to you yet?”

“What?”

He smirked. “You’ll understand eventually.”

The next morning, I found Cianna standing in front of a tall mirror, her reflection blurry and distorted.

“Look,” she said. “If you stare long enough, it shows you things.”

I stared.

At first, it was just us.

Then… for a second… I thought I saw a younger version of myself. Not in orphanage clothes, but in white—running, laughing.

But with someone beside me.

A boy.

I blinked, and the image disappeared.

As the week ended, I realized one thing:

This mansion wasn’t just a home.

It was a container.

For memories. Secrets. People.

And maybe… me.

One evening, I stood in front of my full-length mirror, brushing my hair in silence. The lights were dim—only the lamp by the window glowed softly. My reflection stared back, but there was something… off.

Parang may hiwalay na mundo sa kabila ng salamin.

I leaned forward.

That’s when I noticed it.

The mirror frame wasn’t flush with the wall. May maliit na gap sa gilid—so small, barely visible unless you were looking. My fingers hesitated, then reached out. I pressed along the frame.

Click.

The sound was soft but clear. A section of the wall behind the mirror popped open.

Hindi ito puwedeng normal.

My heart pounded as I slowly swung the mirror aside, revealing a narrow passage behind it. Cobwebs clung to the stone walls. The air smelled of dust and time. I grabbed a small flashlight from my drawer—Cianna left it days ago after one of her “bedtime adventures.”

I stepped inside.

The passage curved downward. Each step echoed, as if the walls themselves were listening.

After several turns, I reached an old wooden door with a rusted latch.

I pushed it open—and gasped.

I was standing behind the library’s tall bookshelf—the one no one ever touched.

---

The library at night was colder. The books looked heavier, older. I stepped out from behind the shelf, heart racing. Now I knew: my bedroom connected to this place.

“Why would they build that?” I whispered to myself.

Then I remembered the notebook I found days ago. “Hidden passage, second library shelf, loose brick on the right side.”

I turned to the other end of the room, found the brick wall beneath the window, and started feeling along the edges.

One brick moved.

I pressed it.

Click.

A section of the wall shifted inward. This one revealed a spiral staircase—downward. Not up.

“Hindi na ito basta daan lang,” I muttered.

But I didn’t go in.

Not yet.

Something told me... that place wasn’t meant to be entered alone.

---

The next morning, I tried to act normal. Pero kahit anong gawin ko, ramdam ko ang bigat ng mga natuklasan ko. I kept glancing at Amairis during breakfast, wondering if she knew. If they all knew.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Mm-hmm,” I lied.

“You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrowed—she didn’t believe me. But she said nothing.

That afternoon, while Cianna was napping and the staff were silent, I explored the upper floors.

The fifth floor was rarely mentioned. No one ever went up there. No footsteps. No voices. No stories.

So I went alone.

I took the eastern staircase, counting each level. First… second… third… fourth… then finally the last.

Dust lined the bannister. The walls were undecorated, dry and pale. There was only one hallway.

And at the end of it, a single black iron door.

Walang pangalan. Walang palamuti. Walang kahit ano.

Just cold metal.

I approached it slowly, careful not to breathe too loudly. There was no knob—only an ornate keyhole shaped like an eye.

The air was still. Heavy.

I pressed my ear against the door. At first, I heard nothing.

Then—

scratch... scratch…

Tumindig ang balahibo ko.

It sounded like fingernails on stone. Slowly, rhythmically. Like someone—or something—was trapped inside.

I stepped back immediately.

And that’s when I noticed it.

A small camera above the door.

Recording.

---

Back in my room, I locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed. This house wasn’t just hiding history—it was actively guarding it. And I wasn’t sure anymore if I was a guest…or part of the secret.

Until now, nanginginig 'yong mga kamay ko sa takot. Naguguluhan ako, gusto kong malaman lahat pero parang ayaw tanggapin ng utak ko. No. This isn't the new life I was imagining in the first place. But damn, I'm already here.

What should I do?

Kahit subukan kong takasan ang lahat ng misteryo sa mansyon na 'to, I know they surely won't let me escape from their grasp. I had no one with me...like it always should be. At wala akong maaaring pagkatiwalaan sa kahit sino sa kanila. They can kill me if they wanted to and I know I can't fight for myself once they do.

Niyakap ko ang mga tuhod ko kasabay ng pag-ihip nang malakas na hangin mula sa bintana. Gusto kong pagalitan ang sarili ko sa pagpayag na tumira sa ganitong lugar. Pero may parte sa akin na ayaw ko nang bumalik sa bahay-ampunan.

Maybe I just need to adjust...like I really should do. I had to face all of these mysteries ALONE. And with every mystery comes the TRUTH behind it.

---

Third Person's POV

Curious as she always was. Trying to solve the mysteries alone but it comes with consequences she must face.

She had found the SECRET DOOR of the mansion. Well, may mga bagay ka pang malalaman na hindi mo pa sa ngayon matutuklasan. Just relax, Ms. Taylor. Once you find out, you won’t be the same anymore.

From the top corner of the fifth-floor hallway, just above the old chandelier that hadn’t flickered in years, a small mechanical eye adjusted its lens—zooming in. Tracking her every movement. Watching how her breath caught, how her fingers trembled as she stepped back from the iron door with the eye-shaped keyhole.

A low buzz echoed inside a dark room somewhere in the west wing.

“She’s found it,” said a voice from behind the monitor.

A long silence.

Then, a quiet chuckle.

“Well,” the man continued, “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”