The House We Couldn't Leave

She didn't remember drawing it.

And that was what terrified her.

Reya sat on the edge of her bed, sketchbook spread open on her lap, the soft graphite already smudged across her hands and wrists. The page was half-filled—delicate lines, confident strokes. Her face.

Drawn in exquisite detail.

Too much detail.

The softness of her hair, the tilt of her head, the shape of her eyes—it was her, but not by her hand. The shading was different. The pressure was off. And her own signature wasn't at the bottom.

Someone else had written the name in tiny, careful letters.

Naomi.

She flipped back a page.

Then another.

She had no memory of making those either.

A hallway with too many doors. A staircase leading nowhere. A girl curled under a bed, eyes hollow.

All signed: Naomi.

She pressed the sketchbook against her chest, heart pounding.

How long had she been drawing without knowing?

Had she fallen asleep? Had someone taken her book?

Or was it worse?

Was it her hand all along, guided by something not her?

She tried to test it.

She opened to a blank page.

Wrote today's date in the corner.

June 17. Or what she thought was June 17.

Then she stared at the page for a long time.

Her hand didn't move.

But her fingers itched.

Not like she wanted to draw—but like her body was preparing to.

As if her hand had already decided to move.

She shook it off.

Tossed the sketchbook across the room and stood.

The mirrors were acting strange again.

There was one mirror above the fireplace in the west parlor that had been broken since they arrived.

Cracked in three places, dull and unreflective.

But when Reya passed it that morning, it looked whole.

And when she stepped in front of it—it showed her not standing, but sitting.

Sitting just like she had been… when she was drawing.

She moved.

The reflection didn't.

It simply blinked once.

And smiled.

She ran.

Didn't tell the others.

Didn't even look back.

Just ran to her room, slammed the door, and forced herself to breathe.

She didn't want to draw.

She didn't want to hold the pencil.

But the moment her hands stopped shaking, she was already reaching for it.

Already sketching again.

This time, it wasn't her.

It wasn't even someone she knew.

It was a girl.

Long dark hair. Pale arms. A mark under one eye.

Wearing the same nightgown Reya had burned weeks ago because it tore down the side.

She drew it perfectly.

Thread for thread.

Stitch for stitch.

And as she finished, she realized the girl had something tucked in her pocket.

A torn name tag.

The sketch was too small to read the name.

So she looked closer.

Squinted.

Then froze.

It said: REYA.

She dropped the pencil.

Snatched the page and tore it in two.

The sound echoed in the room louder than it should've.

The mirror by her wardrobe cracked again.

This time with a single line.

Straight down the middle.

Later, when Tara passed her in the hallway, Reya didn't speak.

She couldn't.

Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, like it belonged to someone else.

Tara looked at her carefully.

"Did you draw again?"

Reya nodded.

"Do you remember it?"

Reya shook her head.

Tara touched her arm.

Softly.

"We need to stop pretending this is new."

That night, she stayed awake.

Not to draw.

To fight it.

But sometime after midnight, she woke with the pencil in her hand again.

The sketchbook open.

Another page half-finished.

Another girl.

No name this time.

Just one word, scrawled in red:

"YOURS."

She closed the book slowly.

Got up.

And opened the drawer in the old writing desk beside her bed.

The one she'd never touched before.

Inside were five sketchbooks.

Not hers.

Different styles. Different bindings.

She opened the first.

All portraits.

All six girls.

But not drawn by Reya.

Each one labeled.

Each with different names.

Lina had been someone else before.

So had she.

One of the books had a faint, smoky smell—like it had survived a fire.

And the last page was blank.

Except for a single sentence written in jagged pencil.

"You draw to remember. But they'll make you forget."

Reya didn't sleep.

She took all five books.

Put them in her drawer.

And locked it.

In the morning, she walked past the mirror again.

The one in the west parlor.

It was cracked again.

But now?

It showed her drawing.

Not sitting.

Not watching.

Just sketching endlessly while someone behind her whispered directions.

She looked back.

No one was there.

But the whisper lingered.

"Draw the door."

She blinked.

"Draw it."

She opened her book.

Hands moving.

Lines forming.

A door.

But not one she recognized.

It wasn't from the house.

It wasn't even from their world.

It curved at the top.

Covered in symbols.

Some of them glowed faintly on the page.

She wasn't imagining that.

She could see them pulsing.

Just like the mirror did when it changed.

She didn't stop.

She couldn't.

When she finished, she closed the book, breath shallow.

Her fingers ached.

Her pulse raced.

And for a second—

She wasn't Reya.

She was someone else.

She was Naomi.

The feeling passed.

But the doubt didn't.

She knew what was coming next.

She had to draw the room.

The one with the mirrors.

The one with the empty frames.

She'd seen it in a dream.

Or in someone else's memory.

She didn't care anymore.

She'd draw it.

Even if it was a trap.

Even if it wasn't hers.

Because someone had to remember.

Someone had to show the others how the story always ends.