The stairs groaned as Aarohi climbed. Not under weight — under memory. Each step echoed like someone else was stepping half a second later.
Upstairs, the corridor stretched unnaturally long. Doors lined both sides, painted black, numbers scratched in white:
27A.
27B.
27C.
She reached for the nearest handle.
27A.
Inside — a hospital room.
Clean. White. Still.
Her mother lay on the bed. Younger than she should be. Alive. Breathing softly.
"Aaru…" her mother whispered.
Hope stabbed Aarohi's chest.
She rushed forward.
Then stopped.
The IV line was filled with soil. Not liquid. Dirt slid slowly through the tube like worms migrating.
Her mother's eyes rolled upward.
"You never came back," the mouth stretched wider than bone allowed.
The walls began sweating dark red streaks.
Aarohi screamed and slammed the door.
The corridor shortened instantly.
The house corrected itself.
She opened another door.
Her childhood bedroom.
Stars still glued to the ceiling. Same desk. Same cracked mirror.
On the bed sat a girl.
Her exact reflection.
Same face. Same scar. Same fear hiding behind the eyes.
The girl looked up slowly.
"You ran instead of remembering," she said calmly.
The mirror fogged behind them. Letters formed as if written by trapped fingers:
WHAT DID YOU DO THAT NIGHT?
Aarohi stepped back.
The reflection smiled.
Then walked backward into the mirror.
And the mirror swallowed her.
From inside the glass came knocking.
Slow.
Patient.
Learning.