The living room waited too neatly.
Furniture sat arranged for people who never arrived. Curtains swayed even though the windows were sealed tight. Dust floated upward instead of settling.
A dining table stood in the center with four chairs. Only three touched the floor. The fourth hovered slightly, rocking as if invisible lungs filled it and emptied it slowly.
Aarohi backed away from it.
On the table lay a notebook.
Old leather.
Bent corners.
Ink stains like veins.
She recognized the handwriting before touching it.
Her own.
But smaller. Younger.
Hands she no longer used.
She opened the first page.
THE HOUSE DOESN'T KILL YOU.
IT LEARNS YOU.
Her pulse thudded.
The pages beyond were filled with moments from her life — not dramatic ones, but private ones. The kind only memory keeps.
The first lie she told in school.
The night she watched her parents fight silently.
The day she packed her bag and ran from Ashwood.
Each entry felt warmer than paper should feel.
At the end, one sentence waited alone:
TONIGHT, YOU REMEMBER WHY YOU LEFT.
Something brushed her ear.
Not breath.
Dust.
Cold dust.
A presence passed behind her, close enough that the hairs on her neck lifted.
She spun around.
Nothing.
But the silence leaned closer now, listening.
The house was no longer empty.
It was attentive.