"Leave it, dear, let's have some breakfast! It's too cold. I'll make some pancakes and some hot chocolate," said Mother as she got up. The mark kept me thinking. All that flashed before my eyes, inching every cell with pain.

I couldn't tear my gaze away from it. The strange symbol, etched into the wooden floor of the attic, seemed to pulse with a dark energy. I had only glimpsed it for a second before Mother hurried me downstairs, but that brief look was enough. It was enough to stir something deep within me, something ancient and fearful.

As Mother busied herself in the kitchen, the smell of pancakes wafting through the air, I sat at the table, absentmindedly poking at the hot chocolate she placed in front of me. The warmth did little to chase away the chill that had settled in my bones.

The mark. What did it mean? Why had it appeared now? And why did it feel like a warning, a silent scream echoing through the silence of our old house? Mother's cheerful humming did little to ease my nerves. I knew I had to go back, to look at it again, to understand. But the fear of what I might find held me in place.

"Eat up, sweetheart," Mother said, her voice a comforting balm. "Everything's going to be fine."I nodded, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. The mark. It haunted me, gnawing at my thoughts, demanding attention. What was it trying to tell me? And why did I feel like time was running out?