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Sighing, Mark was about to fold up the drawing and return to fixing the bed when he suddenly heard a strange laugh. Sharp, ringing, almost childish, yet oddly deep at the same time. He flinched and instinctively glanced at the door.
"Monica?" flashed through his mind, but he immediately realized it wasn’t her. The laugh was different—not adult, yet not entirely childlike either, distorted somehow, too piercing. And most importantly, it didn’t come from beyond the door. The sound seemed to emanate from right there in the room, wrapping around him like something invisible yet undeniably present. The sensation made him tense up instantly.
"What the hell is this?" raced through his mind as his gaze darted feverishly around the room. Everything seemed the same as before: scattered textbooks, the crooked bed, the usual odds and ends. Yet, something in the air had palpably shifted. It felt thick, as if it enveloped him, bringing a strange sense of unease.
Mark’s eyes suddenly caught on the bookshelf. Among the neatly lined-up books, one stood out—a corner of its cover jutted out farther than the others.
Mark frowned. The inexplicable anxiety was growing, but he forced himself to stay calm. The laugh was gone, yet the oppressive silence that had settled over the room felt heavier than the sound itself. Rising from the bed, he moved toward the shelf. His steps were cautious, as if approaching something alive and shrouded in mystery.
The steps were slow, and as he drew closer to the shelf, it felt as though he was pushing against some invisible force pressing harder and harder against his chest. Stretching out his hand, he grabbed the protruding book. Its cover was matte, dark blue, sprinkled with stars that seemed almost real under certain angles of light. At the center of the cover was a round moon disc, faintly glowing. Inside the moon, a peculiar scene was depicted: miniature silhouettes of children in old-fashioned clothing playing against the backdrop of a night sky. Their costumes looked like something from the previous century—wide-brimmed hats, long dresses, pants with suspenders. They held colorful lanterns, lending an air of childlike innocence to the picture, yet the scene seemed unnervingly still, as though its characters were merely pretending to be alive.
Mark absentmindedly ran his fingers across the smooth surface of the cover. He had seen this book a few times before, even held it while tidying the room and arranging the books in neat rows. Back then, it had seemed utterly unremarkable—just another old children’s book, likely left behind from Emma’s school days. But now, for some reason, it held his gaze captive.
Carefully, he sat down at the desk and placed the book in front of him, as if afraid it might slip from his grasp. For a few seconds, he studied the stars on the cover, which still shimmered with every slight shift of the light. There was no title or author’s name, only this nocturnal scene with its enigmatic figures.
Mark opened the book, not bothering to pick a specific page, and his eyes fell immediately on a familiar image. It was the jester—the very same jester Emma had drawn. But in this illustration, he looked entirely different from the sketch he’d found under the bed. Here, he was depicted as a cheerful entertainer. His wide smile no longer inspired revulsion, and his eyes, simple circles, seemed friendly.
Mark felt a faint tremor in his fingertips, unable to tear his gaze away from the picture.
"It's you! You were there! I remember you!" the thought rang out loudly in his mind, bringing back the memory of his anger that day—how his cheeks burned as he stormed out of his room and into the hallway, heading toward the kitchen.
Inside, he had been boiling with fury and resentment.
"Why are they always like this to me?! Cartoons? Go watch cartoons?! And what are you going to do, huh?! I’m not a little kid anymore! I’m fifteen, and they still think I’m some little girl!"