Scene 1
You knock on the door three times, the way your mom taught you. Not too hard, not too soft - just enough to let someone know you're there without scaring the shit out of them. Not that you'd be scared of Sven, this guy you barely know through a friend of a friend. Just a place to crash for a few nights while you sort out your housing situation. No big deal.
Except when the door swings open, you have to crane your neck all the way back just to see his face. Jesus Christ, how tall is this guy?
"Hey," he says, his voice as soft as his smile. "Come in."
He's still damp from a shower, his pale blonde hair slicked back, a faint clean scent of soap wafting from him. He steps aside, and you shuffle past with your duffel bag, suddenly aware of how grimy you feel after a day of travel.
"You look..." he pauses, like he's searching for a word that won't offend you. "Tired."
You are. Three different trains and one missed connection will do that to you. But you shrug like it's nothing, like your feet aren't screaming in your boots and your back isn't a knot of tension.
"The usual travel nightmare," you say, because 'fucking exhausted and questioning all my life choices' doesn't seem like the right opener with a near-stranger.
His house is... Jesus. White walls, pale wood floors, and almost no furniture. One sleek gray couch, a single armchair, a coffee table so minimalist it's barely there. No TV that you can see, no cluttered bookshelves, no random coffee mugs left on surfaces. Just clean, empty space that makes your footsteps echo like you're in a museum after hours.
"Sorry about the mess," he says, which makes you snort because what mess? There's nothing to mess up. You drop your bag by the door, not sure if that's the right move but too tired to care.
"It's fine," you say, because what else are you going to say? Your one-bedroom apartment back home has more personality in the dust bunnies under your bed than this entire place has in its square footage.
He leads you to the kitchen, which is just as pristine. White countertops, not a dish in the sink, a single potted plant on the windowsill. He fills a glass with water and hands it to you without asking if you want it, but you take it because your throat is desert-dry.
"You okay?" he asks, leaning against the counter while you gulp down half the water in one go.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a little embarrassed. "Just... overwhelmed. It's been a day."
His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. They're a pale, almost washed-out blue, like the sky on a winter morning when there's no clouds but no sun either.
"Here, it's always quiet," he says, like it's a promise. "No one will bother you. No one will expect anything."
And there's a sudden, sharp ache behind your breastbone because fuck, that sounds nice. No one expecting you to be okay, to have answers, to know what you're doing with your life. Just... quiet.
You try not to look too desperate for it, even as you're mentally counting the hours until you can collapse into whatever bed he's offering you.
"Thanks," you say, because what else is there? "Really, this is... it's a lifesaver."
He waves it off like it's nothing, like letting a practical stranger into his immaculate home is just a casual Tuesday for him. Maybe it is. You don't know enough about him to be weirded out yet, but the day is young.
"Want the tour before you pass out on your feet?" he asks, and you nod because the alternative is standing here awkwardly while your brain tries to process if this is all some elaborate jetlag hallucination.
The house is bigger than it looked from the outside. The living room bleeds into a dining area with a table that could seat eight but has only one chair pulled out. The bathroom has a deep soaking tub and not a single damp towel in sight. The guest room he shows you is just as sparse - a bed with white sheets, a nightstand with no lamp, a window with no curtains.
"You can stay as long as you need," he says, watching you drop your bag on the pristine bedspread. "No rush."
You're about to ask about Wi-Fi when your phone buzzes - one bar of signal, and it's dropping fast. Shit.
"Do you have the Wi-Fi password?" you ask, holding up your phone like it's evidence of your modern human needs.
He tilts his head, that same gentle smile never faltering. "No Wi-Fi," he says simply. "Here, you rest."
And then he's backing out of the room, leaving you standing there with your dying phone and the sudden, creeping realization that you can't hear a single sound from outside. No cars passing, no neighbors arguing, not even the hum of a refrigerator. Just... quiet.
Scene 2
Hours pass. Or at least, you think it's hours. Without your phone's constant updates, time gets weird. You sit cross-legged on the guest bed, trying to will a signal into existence by sheer desperation. One bar flickers, then dies. Two bars appear for half a second before your screen goes completely black - battery dead.
"Fuck," you whisper, even though there's no one to hear you. Or at least, you hope there's no one to hear you.
You stand up, stretching until your back cracks in three different places. Might as well explore while you wait for Sven to come back and tell you dinner's ready or whatever. You poke your head out of the guest room - no sign of him. The hallway stretches in both directions, all identical white doors. You choose left, because why not.
The first door you try is locked. The second opens to reveal a bathroom even bigger than the one he showed you, with a shower big enough for three people and not a single product on the marble countertop. The third door is a linen closet, perfectly organized with white towels and sheets.
Your stomach growls, loud enough to echo in the empty hallway. Jesus, how long have you been here? You check your watch - it's been four hours since you arrived, which means it's past eight at night. Has he forgotten about you? Or is this some Dutch cultural thing where they don't eat until midnight?
You head back toward the kitchen, but as you pass the living room, you pause. Sven is there, sitting in that single armchair, perfectly still. He's not reading or watching anything, just... sitting. Staring at the blank wall across from him.
"Hey," you say, and he turns his head slowly, like he's coming back from somewhere far away.
"Did you need something?" he asks, and his voice is so soft you have to lean forward to hear him.
"I was just..." you trail off, not sure how to say 'wondering if you'd forgotten I exist or if I'm supposed to fend for myself for dinner.' "It's getting late."
He blinks, like the concept of time is a new one to him. "Are you hungry? I can make something simple."
You almost sag with relief. "That would be amazing, if it's not too much trouble."
He stands in one fluid motion, unfolding his lanky frame from the chair without any of the groaning or joint-popping that would accompany your own movement. "No trouble," he says, and leads the way to the kitchen.
You follow, trying not to stare at the back of his neck where his hair is just long enough to curl over his collar. There's something hypnotic about the steadiness of his gait, the way he doesn't sway or bounce with each step. Just smooth, measured movements.
The kitchen is just as you left it - spotless. He pulls out a pot and fills it with water, then rummages in a cabinet for pasta. You hover in the doorway, unsure if you should offer to help or just stay out of the way.
"Can I do anything?" you finally ask, because the alternative is watching him move around the kitchen in silence.
"You can sit," he says, nodding toward the small table tucked into the corner. There's only one chair at it, but he pulls out a second from somewhere - you swear it wasn't there before, but maybe you just missed it in your earlier assessment of the room.
You sink into it gratefully, your legs finally getting a break from standing. He works in silence, the only sounds the gentle clink of a spoon against the pot and the soft hiss of the stove. No music, no humming, not even the rattle of the vent fan. Just the two of you, breathing.
You try to hum a tune, just to fill the space, but your voice sounds foreign to your own ears. Too loud, too sharp in this white, clean room. You cut off halfway through the second bar, embarrassed for no reason you can name.
Sven doesn't comment, just stirs the pasta with that same methodical motion. When he finally speaks, it's so sudden you jump.
"Do you always make noise when you're nervous?" he asks, not turning around.
The question lands like a slap. "I'm not nervous," you say automatically, even as your fingernails dig half-moons into your palm under the table.
He turns then, his expression unreadable. "Good," he says. "There's no reason to be."
But there's something in the way he says it - not quite a threat, but a... warning? A reminder? You can't parse it, so you just nod and try to look like you're not suddenly, deeply aware of how far you are from anyone who knows where you are.
The pasta is simple but perfect - just olive oil, garlic, and a sprinkle of red pepper flakes. You eat at the table while he leans against the counter, watching you with that same gentle smile.
"It's good," you say, because you have to say something. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he says, and then, as you're scraping the last bite from your bowl: "You can leave the dishes. I'll get them later."
You want to argue - it's the least you could do - but your eyes are already starting to droop. The combination of warm food and the day's travel is hitting you all at once.
"I should probably..." you gesture vaguely toward the guest room.
He nods. "Sleep as long as you need. No one will wake you."
The way he says it - like it's a gift he's giving you - sends an odd shiver down your spine. But you're too tired to examine why, so you just thank him again and make your way back to the guest room.
As you're closing the door, you glance back down the hallway. He's standing in the kitchen doorway, perfectly still, watching you. When he sees you looking, he raises a hand in a small wave, like he's been caught at something. You wave back, then shut the door and lean against it, suddenly not tired at all.
Scene 3
You stand. The walls seem to stretch further away when you're not looking directly at them, like the house is playing some trick with perspective. You walk from room to room, each one emptier than the last. A study with a single desk and no computer. A half-bath with a mirror that shows too much of your own tired face. A storage closet with nothing but cleaning supplies, all identical white bottles with no labels.
When you circle back to the kitchen, Sven is still there, sitting perfectly still at the table. He's not eating or drinking or reading - just... sitting. Staring at nothing.
"Hey," you say, and he turns to look at you, that same gentle smile warming his face like nothing's weird about this at all.
"Did you need something?" he asks, as if you haven't just been pacing through his house like a caged animal.
You drop into the chair across from him, trying to look casual and not like you're counting the steps to the front door in your head. "Don't you ever get lonely?" you blurt out, before you can think better of it.
He tilts his head, considering the question like it's a complicated math problem. "I thought this is what you wanted," he says finally. "No pressure. No noise. Just..." He trails off, lifting one long-fingered hand to gesture at the space around you.
The word he's not saying hangs in the air between you: Quiet.
"But—" you start, then stop, because how do you explain that the silence is starting to feel like a living thing, watching you from the corners of the too-white rooms? "I don't feel anything," you finally say, which isn't quite right but is the closest you can get to the hollow, creeping wrongness that's been growing since you arrived.
Sven's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Exactly," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
You stand again, suddenly needing to move. Your sock feet slide a little on the polished wood floor, and you catch yourself on the edge of the table. Sven doesn't reach out to steady you, just watches with that same patient expression.
"I should probably get some air," you say, because the alternative is admitting that you're starting to feel like the walls are breathing. "Is there a backyard or...?"
He points down the hallway, past the guest room. "Through the living room, there's a door to the garden."
You nod your thanks and head that way, past the single armchair where he'd been sitting earlier. The living room opens up to a sunroom of sorts, all white-painted wood and floor-to-ceiling windows. Except—you stop, squinting.
The windows don't show a garden. They show... white. Not sky, not fog, just a uniform, featureless white that seems to stretch forever. You press your hand to the glass, half-expecting it to give way, but it's solid under your palm. Cold, too, like it's winter outside even though it's the middle of summer.
"Sven?" you call, your voice cracking a little on his name. "What's outside?"
He appears in the doorway behind you, not having made a sound to announce his arrival. "The garden," he says simply, like there's nothing strange about the blank white beyond the glass.
You turn, trying to keep the panic off your face. "But I can't see anything. It's just... white."
He steps closer, until you have to crane your neck to look up at him. He's even taller than you thought, or maybe the low ceiling of the sunroom is making everything feel compressed. "You asked for quiet," he says, like that explains everything. "No one to bother you, no one to expect anything. Isn't that what you wanted?"
You look back at the window, and for a second you could swear the white is moving, swirling like thick fog, but when you focus on it it's perfectly still again.
"I should check the time," you say, patting your pockets for your dead phone. "I told my friend I'd let her know I arrived safe."
Sven watches you fumble for a moment before saying, "Your phone's in your room, charging. You can use the landline if you need to call someone."
But when you turn to ask where the phone is, he's closer than he was a second ago. Close enough that you could count the individual pale lashes around his eyes if you weren't busy trying not to step back into the window behind you.
"It's late," he says softly. "Your friend might be asleep. Wouldn't you rather wait until morning, when you've had a proper rest?"
Your phone chooses that moment to buzz in your back pocket - a single, desperate vibration before going silent again. One bar of signal flickers at the top of the screen, and with it, a single text message:
[Unknown: Come home.]
You don't recognize the number, but the two words send a jolt of adrenaline through your chest. You shove the phone deeper into your pocket, like you can hide the evidence of it from him, even though he's definitely close enough to have seen the screen light up.
"You can leave," Sven says, as if he's reading your thoughts. "If you want to go back to..." he gestures vaguely, like the outside world is just a nuisance. "Or you can stay. And let everything be still."
He says it like it's a simple choice, not like he's offering you something impossible. Stay in this white, quiet house where time seems to stretch and contract around his steady presence. Or walk out into... what? The white beyond the windows?
"I should sleep on it," you finally manage to say. "Big decisions and jetlag don't mix, right?"
He smiles, slow and genuine, and something in your chest unwinds a fraction. "Wise," he says, and steps back, giving you room to breathe. "Sleep as long as you need. No one will rush you."
But as you edge past him, careful not to brush against his arm, you can't shake the feeling that you're already running out of time.
Scene 4
Your hand is shaking as you unlock the door. Three separate locks, each one turning with a heavy thunk that seems to echo through the silent house. Behind you, the hallway stretches empty and white, but you could swear you feel eyes on the back of your neck.
It's 3:17 in the morning according to the clock on the microwave. You'd waited until the deep, regular breathing from Sven's room had settled into what you hoped was sleep before you'd crept out of the guest room with your hastily packed bag. Three hours of lying perfectly still, watching the shadows move across the white ceiling, before you'd worked up the nerve to move.
The last lock sticks, and you have to put your whole weight into turning the key. The metal groans in protest, loud enough to make you freeze, breath held, waiting for the creak of a floorboard or the sound of a door opening. But the house remains silent, just the distant hum of the refrigerator cycling on and off.
You finally get the lock to turn, and then you're faced with the actual door. Heavy wood, with no window or peephole to show you what's on the other side. Just more white, you assume, like the windows showed. But it has to lead somewhere, right? Houses have neighbors, have streets, have a world beyond their walls.
You grasp the handle and pull.
The door swings open silently, well-oiled hinges not giving you away. And beyond it is—
White.
Not a garden, not a street, not even a wall. Just a featureless, depthless white that seems to stretch forever. You squint, trying to make out any shape or shadow in the brightness, but there's nothing. Like someone's hung a white sheet an inch from the doorframe, except you can feel a cool breeze wafting in, carrying no scent at all.
"Going somewhere?"
You jerk around so fast you slam your elbow into the doorframe. Sven stands at the end of the hallway, dressed in the same clothes he was wearing at dinner. No sleep-rumpled hair or bleary eyes - just that same gentle smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes now.
"I—" You have no good explanation, your packed bag a dead giveaway. "I got a text. Family emergency."
He tilts his head, considering. "At 3 AM?"
You nod, even as your stomach twists with the lie. "My sister. She's pregnant and—"
He holds up a hand, stopping your babbling. "You don't have to explain," he says. "You can always leave. The question is whether you want to."
You glance back at the white beyond the door. Is it your imagination, or is it getting brighter? More solid?
"Where does it go?" you finally ask, unable to keep the tremor from your voice.
He shrugs, one fluid motion of his broad shoulders. "Wherever you need it to. Or nowhere at all." He takes a step closer, and you press yourself harder against the doorframe. "Some people can't stand peace," he continues, almost sad. "They'd rather go back to the noise and the chaos and the expectations than stay where it's..." He gestures around at the white walls, the clean, empty space.
"It's not that," you say, though you're not sure what it is. Just a deep, bone-certain knowledge that you need to leave now, before the door stops opening, before the white outside becomes as solid as the walls around you.
He watches you for a long moment, and you could swear the white beyond the door is starting to swirl, like thick fog churning in a wind you can't feel. Then he sighs, a soft exhalation that seems to come from everywhere at once.
"Go, then," he says finally. "But remember - the door is always open if you want to come back to quiet."
You don't wait for him to change his mind. You step through the doorway, into the blinding white, and as it swallows you, you hear his voice behind you:
"Some people can't stand peace."
Even after you left, you'd wake some nights to a perfect, terrible silence. Your own apartment, with its creaking pipes and neighbor's thumping bass, would suddenly go completely, utterly still. No distant traffic, no hum of the refrigerator, not even the tick of the clock on your wall. Just white noise that wasn't noise at all - a void of sound that would stretch for one breath, two, three, before the world rushed back in with a jolt that left your heart hammering.
You'd check your phone then, scrolling through your messages to make sure that text from an unknown number was still there. [Come home.] But when you'd try to call it back, it would always go straight to a recording: "The number you have dialed is not in service."
Sometimes, in those moments of perfect quiet, you'd catch yourself staring at the door. Waiting for a knock that never came.