Chapter 4 Invisible Rules

The house had that particular silence that only dwells in grand spaces. It wasn't stillness. It was distance. As if the walls kept secrets from each other, without needing witnesses.

Elías came down the stairs as soon as the sky began to lighten. Not because someone had called him, but because his body, after years of forced obedience, no longer knew how to rest. He was still wearing the same clothes Nina had left on the bed, clean but rough, without belonging. He walked like someone who didn't want to leave footprints, even though the floor was too shiny to hide any mistake.

The kitchen, at the back of the service wing, was the first place where the clocks seemed most human. The smell of strong coffee, freshly baked bread, and bleach greeted him before any words.

"Early," Nina said, continuing to wash dishes that already seemed clean.

Elías nodded, as if that were what was expected.

"Better. So you see how things are done around here."

She didn't look at him. But he read it. As if he'd seen it before, in another version of himself. As if he knew by heart the gestures of those who learn to survive without asking.

"First, listen. There are rules. I'll tell you some. Others... better for you to discover on your own."

Elías said nothing.

"Here, no one enters through the main door unless they're family. You don't go up to the second floor. You don't walk through the gardens of the east wing. Meals are served here, for the staff. Not at the same time as the masters, nor on the same tableware. You greet if they greet you. And you remain silent when those above you speak."

A sharp rap on the table set the rhythm.

"And if you ever don't know what to do... wait. Look. That can save you more than any words."

The double doors connecting the kitchen to the rest of the house opened without warning. A floral scent and the sound of heels on marble announced Estela de Altamirano even before her figure appeared. He entered as if he hadn't asked permission because he'd never had to. His white silk robe shone brighter than the morning sun, and his expression was as impeccable as it was sharp.

Nina straightened. Elías did too. Instinctively.

"Is this the boy who arrived last night?" Estela asked, not looking at anyone in particular.

"Yes, ma'am," Nina replied in a neutral voice.

"Well, Renato and his impulses. Always so... generous with strangers."

She took a couple of steps closer. Her gaze scanned Elías from top to bottom as if inspecting a window cleaning.

"What's your name?"

Elías swallowed. He hesitated.

"Elías."

He didn't add a last name.

"Funny name."

It wasn't an opinion. It was a veiled judgment.

"I hope you know how to behave. This house has its... rules. We don't like conflicts. Or misunderstandings. Do I make myself clear?" Elías held her gaze. Not defiant, but not submissive either.

"Yes, ma'am."

Estela smiled with her lips, but not with her eyes. And she left, just as she had entered, leaving behind her the lingering scent of a warning wrapped in white flowers.

Nina turned to him as soon as the door closed.

"Never contradict her. Never cross her alone if you can avoid it. And if you do... remember that you are nobody."

Elías took a deep breath.

It didn't hurt because it was a lie. It hurt because he'd heard it before.

Hours later, he was sent to help clean an area of ​​the house that smelled like confinement. An old gallery, locked from the outside, where the furniture was covered with sheets and dust slept on top of the paintings.

"Hardly anyone comes in here," Nina said, carefully dusting a bronze candlestick. "But it's good for you to know every corner." That way you know where not to go again.

As they worked in silence, Elías noticed a different door. Smaller. Made of thick wood. Locked with a rusty bolt.

"And that one?"

Nina didn't look up.

"That door's been locked since before I arrived. And that was over thirty years ago. Don't ask."

Elías approached anyway. He touched the handle without opening it. The wood gave him a strange feeling, as if it were hiding something damp. Old. Pulsing.

On the floor, he found something fallen between the floorboards: a key ring. It had a letter engraved on it: R. He slipped it into his pocket almost without thinking.

He didn't know why. He just knew it had to be put away.

The house wasn't just big. It was a decorated cage. And each room had its own lock, though not all of them were visible.

He had just entered the most elegant of prisons.

And he was already beginning to memorize the exits.