I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
As the first fragile notes spill into the room, Remi glances up toward the camera with an expression caught somewhere between sheepish and did anyone else see that?, lips twitching in the faintest smile, like a man who’s just been caught bluffing at a poker table and realised he might be holding a winning hand after all.
He shrugs lightly. "Sometimes a draft can trigger it," he says, tone casual, almost apologetic. "What we’re really looking for is consistent—" The music box plays again. Not just a single phrase this time, not just the wind brushing past a sensitive hinge. The tune lilts out, bright and tinny and unbroken, the kind of sound that might’ve once meant bedtime but now cuts too clearly against the hush of the empty room.
Remi blinks slowly; his eyes flick to the camera again, then to the box, as if trying to read its intentions through cheap plastic and gears. For a second, he looks like he might say something else—, but then he seems to remember himself. You’re the medium, after all, he reminds himself before clearing his throat, gently, and shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor, careful to stay a few feet away from the toy. His hands rest lightly on his knees. There’s something almost reverent in the stillness that follows.
"Hello," he says softly, voice warm and even. "If there’s someone here with us, I want to thank you for the music. I quite like it." He glances once more at the box, then back toward the shadows near the door. "I’d like to play a game, if that’s alright." A pause. "If you’re here—and if you’d like to play—can you stop the music..and then start it again?"
He falls silent, but the house doesn't. The box keeps singing and then suddenly stops, like a finger pressed gently but firmly to a lip. Remi’s brows lift, lips parting in a quiet breath. Then, just as he leans forward a touch, the music starts again. The same hollow lullaby. A few silvery notes, bright and uncomfortably cheerful. "Good," he whispers, the word more exhale than sound. Encouraging. Warm. Like he’s speaking to someone very young, or very far away.
"Okay, I will explain the game I want to play," he says, shifting slightly where he sits. His accent, faint but distinct, rounds the edges of his words as he continues. "It’s one I played when I was a boy in Italy. My cousins and I—"
SLAM.
The sound tears up from downstairs, hard and sharp and unmistakably real. Not a creak. Not a draft. The crash of a door slamming shut with enough force to shake the old wood of the frame. Remi’s mouth stays open for half a second longer than it should, then he looks up, eyebrows raised, calm slipping into something more alert. His gaze cuts toward the hallway, then over to Isla behind the camera.
He shrugs lightly. "Sometimes a draft can trigger it," he says, tone casual, almost apologetic. "What we’re really looking for is consistent—" The music box plays again. Not just a single phrase this time, not just the wind brushing past a sensitive hinge. The tune lilts out, bright and tinny and unbroken, the kind of sound that might’ve once meant bedtime but now cuts too clearly against the hush of the empty room.
Remi blinks slowly; his eyes flick to the camera again, then to the box, as if trying to read its intentions through cheap plastic and gears. For a second, he looks like he might say something else—, but then he seems to remember himself. You’re the medium, after all, he reminds himself before clearing his throat, gently, and shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor, careful to stay a few feet away from the toy. His hands rest lightly on his knees. There’s something almost reverent in the stillness that follows.
"Hello," he says softly, voice warm and even. "If there’s someone here with us, I want to thank you for the music. I quite like it." He glances once more at the box, then back toward the shadows near the door. "I’d like to play a game, if that’s alright." A pause. "If you’re here—and if you’d like to play—can you stop the music..and then start it again?"
He falls silent, but the house doesn't. The box keeps singing and then suddenly stops, like a finger pressed gently but firmly to a lip. Remi’s brows lift, lips parting in a quiet breath. Then, just as he leans forward a touch, the music starts again. The same hollow lullaby. A few silvery notes, bright and uncomfortably cheerful. "Good," he whispers, the word more exhale than sound. Encouraging. Warm. Like he’s speaking to someone very young, or very far away.
"Okay, I will explain the game I want to play," he says, shifting slightly where he sits. His accent, faint but distinct, rounds the edges of his words as he continues. "It’s one I played when I was a boy in Italy. My cousins and I—"
SLAM.
The sound tears up from downstairs, hard and sharp and unmistakably real. Not a creak. Not a draft. The crash of a door slamming shut with enough force to shake the old wood of the frame. Remi’s mouth stays open for half a second longer than it should, then he looks up, eyebrows raised, calm slipping into something more alert. His gaze cuts toward the hallway, then over to Isla behind the camera.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
