The Codex of Speed

Disaster

POV Serena

I push open the front door, humming a little to myself. It's late afternoon, the sun already dipping low, and the bus ride has left me tired in that calm, heavy way that makes your shoulders slump without you noticing. I toss my bag onto the sofa, expecting the usual quiet, the familiar hum of our home, the smell of Mom's cooking lingering in the air.

Except... it isn't like that.

The first thing I notice is the silence. Not the calm kind of silence, the comforting kind I'm used to when Dad is reading in his chair and Mom is in the garden. This is different. Heavy. Wrong.

The second thing is the smell — faint, metallic, almost like something upended or spilled. And then my eyes catch it: the hallway, my bedroom... furniture isn't where it belongs. The chairs are overturned, cushions ripped from the sofa, papers scattered across the floor.

My stomach drops.

"Mom? Dad?" My voice is higher than I expected. Quieter, too, as if calling out loudly would make the air swallow my words whole. No answer.

I move through the living room, stepping carefully over scattered books and overturned shoes. Every corner of the house feels... violated. I reach the kitchen. Cabinets are slightly ajar, drawers pulled halfway out. Nothing is gone, I think, at first glance. But the absence of their voices, their presence, is deafening.

I grab my phone, fingers trembling slightly. No messages. Nothing. I scroll, half-expecting a text from Mom: Out running errands, be back soon. But the screen is empty.

Panic twists in my chest, cold and sharp. My mind races through every possibility — accidents, emergencies, something worse. I try to steady my breathing, tell myself it's nothing, that there must be a simple explanation. But the evidence in front of me refuses to let me settle.

I take a cautious step toward the bedroom, where I expect at least some sign of life. The door creaks as I push it open. Empty. Sheets tossed aside, drawers rifled through, wardrobe doors swinging slightly. The only sound is the faint echo of my own heartbeat in the quiet room.

I back out, every nerve alert, scanning the apartment for any clue. Phone in hand, I scroll for contacts, friends, anyone who might know where they are. Nothing.

For a moment, I can't move. The apartment, the life I thought was stable, feels fragile, unreal. And then, slowly, I realize it: they're gone.

My hands feel cold as I back into the living room, staring at the mess like it might rearrange itself and turn back to normal if I wait long enough. It doesn’t. Nothing moves except the tight shaking of my breath.

I dial my mother first.

One ring. Two. Three.

“The number you have reached is unavailable—”

I hang up before the voicemail finishes. My throat tightens. I try Dad next. Straight to voicemail.

A heavy, sick feeling coils in my stomach.

I try the neighbors. I try a family friend. No one knows anything; most don’t even pick up. Each unanswered call only makes the walls feel like they’re closing in a little more.

I force myself to breathe in. Then out. Then again.

I open the kitchen drawers, then the cabinets, carefully this time. Not to look for missing items, but for any sign — a note, a message, anything they might have left. But everything seems torn through, not arranged. This isn’t them leaving in a hurry. This is someone searching.