The air thickened.
Not with smoke.
With memory.
The creature lifted its arm — and the basement dissolved.
Rain fell instantly.
Cold.
Heavy.
The smell of wet asphalt rushed into Aarohi's lungs.
She stood in the middle of a road that no longer existed.
Ashwood's old highway.
Midnight.
Headlights burned through fog.
Her heart raced.
"No… not again…"
The scene moved around her like a living recording.
She saw herself — younger, thinner, shaking — standing with her little brother Rohan at the roadside.
He was crying.
"Aaru, wait."
A car approached too fast.
Brake lights flashed too late.
Time slowed painfully.
She remembered the moment perfectly now — her hands pushing him away from danger, but not far enough.
The impact sounded like breaking fruit.
Rohan's body rolled.
Silence swallowed the scream.
Aarohi collapsed in the memory.
Tears poured uncontrollably.
"I was scared," she sobbed. "I didn't know what to do."
The world darkened.
The creature's faces formed around her again.
"And fear builds houses," they whispered.
Police lights flashed.
Her parents screaming replayed.
Her own voice lying:
It wasn't my fault.
I couldn't help.
Then the memory twisted.
Rohan stood up.
But wrong.
His bones bent backward.
His mouth stretched too wide.
"You left me here," he said.
Aarohi crawled backward.
"I couldn't stay."
The rain turned black.
The road softened like flesh.
"You ran instead of remembering."
The house rebuilt itself around her.
The basement returned.
And the walls began closing.