The House We Couldn't Leave

Mina had always believed in logic.

Even in the house—especially in the house.

While the others chased ghosts in mirrors, saw names change on cribs, or whispered about girls who'd vanished, she grounded herself in rules. Systems. Routines. She folded her clothes. She made her bed. She cleaned the dining room three times a week, even when no one asked her to.

She had to believe that order could hold the madness back.

Because if it couldn't, then what was the point of staying sane?

But lately, her routines weren't working.

She'd walk into the kitchen, only to find dishes she never used, set for people she didn't remember.

She found footprints on the clean floor—bare feet, too small to be hers.

And then there were the voices.

Just one, really.

Calling her by name.

But not the one she answered to.

"Marin."

She didn't tell the others.

She wasn't like them.

She was the strong one. The sensible one.

Until she opened the drawer in the study.

And found the envelope.

It was yellowed, soft around the edges, sealed with old wax.

There was no stamp, no sender address.

Just her name on the front.

Mina.

But the handwriting…

It was familiar.

Too familiar.

Like her own—but older.

Sharper in some places. Weaker in others.

She didn't open it right away.

She stared at it for almost ten minutes.

Then, slowly, tore it open.

Inside were three things:

1. A torn photograph of six girls. Blurry. Water-damaged. But it wasn't them. It was the same layout. The same postures. But not the same faces.

2. A list of names.

 * Tara

 * Reya

 * Aria

 * Lina

 * Sofi

 * Naomi

 * M̶i̶n̶a̶ Marin 

3. A single sheet of paper, folded in half. One side was blank.

The other had a few lines of writing.

In her own voice.

Her own rhythm.

But the words were wrong.

"If you're reading this, it's already started.

You won't believe it yet, but you will.

Don't try to protect them.

You'll fail. Again.

But maybe this time, you can buy them more time.

Start by remembering who you were.

My name is Marin. Yours is, too.

I made the same mistake. Don't repeat it."

She dropped the paper.

Stepped back.

Her legs hit the desk and nearly buckled.

No.

It was a trick.

Some cruel joke from the house. Or from Mr. Calden.

She wanted to throw the letter in the fire.

She wanted to scream at the walls, demand an explanation, demand control.

But she didn't.

She picked up the list of names again.

Traced the one she thought was hers.

Mina.

Then the one beside it.

Marin.

She said it aloud.

It felt wrong in her mouth.

Like an old shoe that didn't quite fit—but had once.

That night, she skipped dinner.

Locked her door.

Sat on her bed with the envelope in her lap, reading it over and over.

Her own handwriting.

Her own name.

But not the same memory.

She tried to recall writing it.

She couldn't.

But her hand knew it.

The way the loops curled, the way the M leaned slightly left.

She pulled out her journal—her real one, the one she never showed the others.

Flipped to the first page.

Compared it

The match was undeniable.

She had written this letter.

But when?

And why couldn't she remember it?

In the morning, she went down to the west parlor.

She sat in front of the broken mirror.

Waited.

When nothing happened, she reached into her coat and pulled out the photograph.

Held it in front of the glass.

Six girls.

Their faces flickered faintly in the mirror's reflection—but not her own.

Not as she was now.

As someone else.

Slightly taller.

Hair tied up.

Eyes sharper.

Older.

Not Mina

Marin.

The others passed by the doorway.

No one stopped.

No one asked where she was.

Maybe they didn't even see her.

She wondered if the house had started erasing her, too

Or replacing her.

She pressed the photo to the glass.

A hairline crack spread from one corner

And when she turned the photo over, she noticed something new.

A faint scribble in pencil.

"Loop 5"

Her breath caught.

She looked back at the list of names.

Eight of them. Six present.

One gone. One watching.

Eight names. Six bodies.

Which meant…

Which meant someone wasn't new.

Someone was returned.

Someone was repeating.

Maybe more than one.

She stayed quiet the rest of the day.

But something had changed.

She no longer felt grounded.

She felt like her body was a second version of something else—some previous self, peeled away and redressed.

That night, she opened her journal again.

Turned to the last page.

Blank.

And wrote in it:

"This time, I remember."

"This time, I won't let it reset without me."

Then she added:

"I am not Mina.

I was never Mina.

I am Marin.

I just forgot."

Outside her window, the fog thickened.

But in the reflection of the glass, she saw a flicker.

Another her.

Smiling.

Not kindly.

But knowingly.