MIDNIGHT RAIN

The Soundless Home

No one truly knew who Lania Cereus was. At university, she was known as a quiet, intelligent girl, always neat, with a soft and polite manner of speaking. At the bakery where she worked part-time, she was a diligent young employee, always punctual and working in silence. But behind the faint smile on her pale face, Lania kept a secret deeper than any past wound.

She was the daughter of a wealthy man, a prominent businessman whose name often graced the business section of newspapers. Yet Lania’s life was far from the fairytale of a billionaire’s daughter. She wasn’t a special girl living in luxury. On the contrary, she was a stain in her father’s perfect story.

Her mother had once been a maid in that grand household. A simple woman who fell too deeply in love with her master. That love went unreturned, turning into obsession, and ultimately into a wound that never healed. When Lania was ten, her mother with wild eyes and trembling hands, ended her life in the backyard of her father’s mansion. There, Lania hid behind a shedding tree, silently watching her world collapse.

From that day on, she knew she was a disgrace. An unwanted shadow, the result of a love twisted by delusion.

Fate offered her a sliver of comfort. Her father's legal wife, technically her stepmother treated her with surprising kindness. Perhaps it was because the woman had no daughter of her own, or perhaps because Lania was the only remnant of a tragedy no one could forget. Her stepbrothers, too, treated her warmly. They often visited her apartment, bringing food or silently flipping through her textbooks without asking questions.

Now, Lania lived in a small apartment near campus and the library. Every morning, she rose slowly, made warm tea, and sat on the narrow balcony facing the park. Steam rose gently from her worn white cup, warming her pale, trembling fingers.

Physically, she was weak. Her blood carried a rare disease—non-contagious but fatal over time. A unique blood type that, they said, could save many lives, yet slowly killed its bearer. She visited the doctor monthly, always on time, never missing a single appointment. If her life could be prolonged, she would fight for it with all her might.

Although her father covered all her living expenses, Lania refused to depend entirely on a kindness she could never repay. She worked part-time at a small bakery on the corner. Every afternoon, in a plain white uniform and navy apron, she politely served customers. Her small hands swiftly packed bread. Occasionally, she would massage her aching feet, hiding her exhaustion behind a smile. Even when her breathing grew labored from standing too long, Lania endured. Her will was stronger than her body.

That night, heavy rain poured. Grey skies hung low over the city. Lania’s thin clothes were damp as she entered her apartment, shivering. She closed the door quietly, set her bag on the table with a weary motion, and reached for the thick blanket on the chair.

“Hachoo!” Her sneezes echoed repeatedly. Her nose reddened as she curled up on the sofa, biting her lip, trying to resist the cold creeping into her joints.

Her phone rang. The screen showed “Mom,” her affectionate name for her stepmother. She stared at the screen briefly, then answered, holding back her breath.

“Mom will stop by tomorrow. Do you need anything?”

Lania sneezed again. Her breathing was heavy.

“Sweetheart! Are you okay?” Her mother’s voice sounded anxious, nearly panicked.

“Yes… Don’t worry,” Lania replied hoarsely, barely a whisper.

“All right. Get some rest. I won’t bother you anymore.”

After the call ended, Lania stared at the screen for a moment before setting the phone down. Her face looked drained. Two years alone hadn’t erased that voice from her heart, a warmth that still lingered in her life.

She pulled the blanket up to her chin and buried her face into the pillow. Exhaustion quickly lulled her into sleep.

…

The beep from the apartment door woke her. The door opened with a code only someone close would know.

Sure enough, her stepmother entered carrying grocery bags. Her face full of concern, she rushed to the bedside and touched Lania’s forehead with the back of her hand.

“Oh God, you’re burning…”

The touch stirred Lania. Her eyes fluttered open, blurry, and she saw two figures before her. Her mother, and someone standing at the doorway with folded arms.

Malin.

Her eldest brother stared sharply, brows furrowed, an expression of anger and worry. His eyes scanned every inch of his sister’s body.

Lania tried to sit up, but her mother gently pressed her shoulder back down.

“Don’t get up. Just rest, dear,” her mother said gently but firmly.

“Stupid girl,” Malin muttered harshly, louder than he meant to, his voice trembling. There was restrained anger and a touch of guilt.

“Sorry, Mom… I thought I’d be okay,” Lania whispered, barely audible. Her eyes half-closed.

Her mother stood. “Enough. Don’t talk too much. I’ll call the doctor.” She picked up her phone and headed out of the room. “Malin, stay with your sister. And don’t you dare scold her again, or I’ll be the one scolding you.”

Malin dropped his folded arms, defeated. His mother’s threat was enough to stifle his anger.

He sat in the chair beside the bed, bowed his head, and sighed softly.

“Why are you always like this, Lan?” he murmured more to himself than to her.

Lania closed her eyes. She chose silence, no answers, no arguments. She only wanted to sleep. Her heart felt heavy. Once again, her body had failed her. Once again, she became a burden to a family she never asked for. Once again, she felt indebted.

But beneath the fatigue and fever, Lania knew she was still loved. And perhaps, that was enough to hold on just a little longer.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city…

At the top of the tallest building in the city center, a penthouse lay hidden behind black-tinted glass. The space was vast, covering nearly half the floor, complete with a circular balcony, a private spa pool, and a dry garden filled with rare plants that didn’t grow from soil, but from the will of a vampire who had lived for nine hundred and twenty-eight years.

Remian.

He sat leisurely on a genuine leather lounge chair, one leg crossed, his long fingers clutching a crystal glass filled with dark red liquid. His eyes, dark ash and nearly lifeless, stared blankly at the horizon. The cityscape stretched beautifully below, but his gaze reflected no awe, only a lingering weariness.

He slowly lifted the glass, examining the red hue beneath the dim glow of a modern industrial-style chandelier. The faint light bounced off the surface of the blood, casting a gleam like frozen rubies.

"Its fresh scent hasn't faded," he murmured flatly. His voice was deep and heavy, like an echo from a cold, empty room.

No music. No sound from the television. Only the soft hum of the air conditioning system, merging with the slow tick of an antique wall clock, the rhythm of time seemingly cautious in the presence of such an immortal being.

Remian was no ordinary man. He was a legend never recorded, a history lost to every archive. A wealthy man with no job, yet he controlled a stream of income from a network of apartments, shops, and homestays scattered across various cities, all under different aliases. His system was meticulous. His wealth stable. His financial manager only appeared in his life once a week, sometimes once a month.

He lived in silence. And that was a choice… or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Remian rose slowly from the chair. His movements were calm, almost soundless, as if even the air yielded to his presence. His shoulders were straight, his height towering at 180 centimeters. His body was lean but muscular—like a marble statue given breath.

His steps led him to the open kitchen at the far end of the room. He opened a steel fridge with thick glass doors, a small chamber storing bags of donor blood from the hospital. He took one, gently shook it, then poured its contents into the crystal glass. No splash. No spill. His movements were smooth and precise, like a ritual repeated thousands of times.

With a fresh glass in hand, he walked to the large window, standing still before the night that was beginning to swallow the city. He took a sip. His tongue met the faint taste of iron. He held his breath, letting the flavor spread across his palate.

"No surprises... as always," he whispered softly, as if the words were part of his breath rather than his voice.

Remian often claimed he chose solitude. But the truth he avoided? He was simply too lazy to socialize and too embarrassed to admit he was extremely antisocial. The vampire community, scattered quietly across the globe, held monthly gatherings, but Remian rarely attended. And when he did, he merely stood in the corner, expressionless, arms crossed, speaking only when spoken to.

"Still alive, Rem?"

"Unfortunately, yes," he had replied curtly, then drank blood straight from the bottle like wine.

Though sharp and cold, Remian wasn’t evil. He was just… lonely. But a kind of loneliness he didn’t recognize. The human world was too noisy, too fast, and too fragile for him. He could crush things with a single grip, but more often chose not to touch anything at all.

He lived like a shadow that refused to cling to anyone.