The House We Couldn't Leave

The rain had stopped, but the house still creaked like it was shivering.

Tara sat at the top of the east staircase, back against the cold wall, knees pulled to her chest. She hadn't slept again—not really. She was afraid if she closed her eyes too long, the walls would change shape and she'd never notice.

She was already losing track of days. Maybe weeks.

The others weren't talking about it much. Not openly. Reya drew things she didn't explain. Aria had stopped making jokes. Mina still walked around like she was in control, but Tara had seen the way her hands shook when she thought no one was looking.

And then there was Mr. Calden.

Always calm. Always watching. Like the house breathed through him.

Tara didn't trust him.

Not anymore.

She waited until just after breakfast.

The others were cleaning up or pretending to. Sofi had spilled tea again. Mina told her not to cry. Aria stood by the window, staring out at nothing.

Tara slipped away.

Down the hallway, past the rusted suit of armor near the study, to Mr. Calden's door.

It was the only one with a brass handle instead of iron. Ornate. Shiny. Out of place.

She raised her hand to knock.

Then stopped.

A voice came from within.

"…can't hold much longer…"

It was Mr. Calden's voice.

She leaned closer.

"…too many loops. They're bleeding now. Her name is—"

The floorboard creaked beneath her foot.

Silence.

Then the door swung open.

Mr. Calden stood there, his pale eyes unreadable.

"Miss Tara," he said. "What a surprise."

She swallowed hard. "I wanted to talk."

His lips curled faintly. "Then come in."

The study was lined with books. More than she'd ever noticed from the hallway.

But none of them had titles on the spines.

Some were upside-down. Some were in languages she couldn't recognize. One was wet.

Mr. Calden sat behind the desk.

There was no chair for her.

She stood anyway.

"You said your wife was upstairs," Tara said. "But no one's seen her. Ever."

He didn't answer.

She pushed forward.

"Where's Lina?"

His eyes flickered. "Who?"

Tara stepped closer.

"You know who. You said her name the day she vanished. You told Reya she was 'somewhere quieter.'"

He clasped his gloved hands together.

"I believe you are mistaken."

"I'm not," Tara snapped. "I remember. I remember everything. And if you're trying to make me forget—"

"I don't have to try," he said quietly. "The house does that all on its own."

That shut her up.

Only for a second.

"What is this place?"

He tilted his head.

"A home."

"It's a trap."

"Aren't all homes, eventually?"

She clenched her fists. "What do you want from us?"

He looked at her for a long time. Not with menace. Not even coldness.

Just… tiredness.

"I want nothing," he said.

"Then why are we here?"

"You came."

"We were sent."

"Were you?"

Tara opened her mouth. Closed it again.

He rose slowly from his chair.

Walked to the far shelf.

Pulled down a box.

It was made of black wood. No hinges. No latch.

He set it on the desk and pushed it toward her.

"Take it," he said.

She hesitated.

Then lifted the lid.

Inside was a single sheet of yellowed paper.

A map.

But not of the house.

Not exactly.

It looked like a blueprint. Rooms connected by unfamiliar corridors. Staircases that spiraled downward instead of up. One hallway that curved in on itself and disappeared into a blank spot labeled only: "VOID."

She touched the paper.

It was ice-cold.

"Where is this?" she asked.

Mr. Calden met her gaze.

"You've already been there."

Tara didn't speak.

She folded the paper carefully, hands trembling, and tucked it into the lining of her coat.

"Why are you showing me this now?"

He didn't answer.

So she turned and left.

She didn't go back to the others.

Not yet.

She went to the west wing. The abandoned part. Where the wallpaper peeled and the ceilings dripped even when it hadn't rained.

The place they'd stopped exploring weeks ago.

She checked the map again.

Three steps past the grandfather clock.

Turn left at the missing painting.

Then—

A wall.

Not a door.

Not an entrance.

Just a wall.

She reached out and pressed her hand against it.

It bulged slightly under her touch.

She pushed harder.

And it moved.

A narrow hallway stretched beyond.

Dark.

Too quiet.

Tara stepped inside.

The door sealed behind her.

She didn't even flinch.

The air was colder here.

The walls curved inward, like they'd been bent by heat or pressure. The floor slanted slightly downward, and she felt the strain in her legs as she walked.

Every few steps, the candle in her hand dimmed.

Then flared again.

Shadows shifted wrong.

Not behind her—but beside her.

Mirroring her.

Mimicking her stride.

She didn't look at them.

Didn't acknowledge them.

After what felt like twenty minutes, she found it.

A door.

Small, iron, barely wide enough for her to pass through.

She pushed it open.

Inside: a room.

Empty.

Except—

On the far wall, carved in thick, desperate lines:

"WE CAME FIRST."

Below it, scratched more faintly:

"SHE WAS ME BEFORE I WAS HER."

Tara backed away slowly.

And saw the mirror.

Not on the wall.

On the floor.

Cracked.

Warped.

But still reflective.

She leaned over it.

Saw herself.

And someone standing just behind her—

Smiling.

She didn't scream.

Didn't run.

She stared into the mirror until the reflection behind her faded.

Then whispered, "I remember you."

The mirror cracked down the center.

A new word appeared, written in reverse:

"RETURN."

Tara turned and left.

She didn't take the map back to her room.

She burned it.

Then returned to the east staircase and s

at exactly where she'd started.

As if she'd never moved.

But now she knew.

There was a floor beneath them.

Not in architecture.

In time.

And it was waking up.