The House We Couldn't Leave

The map was supposed to be gone.

Tara had burned it. Watched it curl into ash. Made sure it couldn't tempt her again.

And yet, every step she took down the darkened corridor, her feet moved with certainty. Her hand touched the same warped walls. Her breath caught at the same corners.

She remembered the way.

Not on paper

In her bones.

The hallway behind the wall had changed.

It was colder. Narrower.

Once, it had only gone in one direction.

Now, it branched.

Tara hesitated at the fork. The right path curved upward slightly—the left dipped lower.

She chose the left.

Not because it felt safer.

Because it felt familiar.

Too familiar.

The air thickened as she descended.

Like breathing underwater.

The candle she held flickered, then died.

Still, she walked.

There was a door ahead. Thin. Wooden. Warped.

It had no knob.

Only a small symbol carved in its center.

Three circles overlapping.

She touched it.

The door opened.

Inside was a room.

Not large.

Not grand.

Just… still.

Dust motes floated in the air like ash.

There were six pedestals inside, arranged in a crescent.

Each one held a single object.

Tara stepped forward, heartbeat thundering in her ears.

The first pedestal held a hair ribbon. Pale blue. Stained at the edge. She'd seen it before. On Sofi's first day here.

But Sofi had lost it weeks ago. They'd all helped her search.

And yet—here it was.

Old. Faded. Like it had waited years.

The second pedestal: a sketchbook.

Tara didn't need to open it.

She could feel Reya's presence in the graphite smudges and spiral-bound edge.

But this wasn't the current sketchbook.

This one was thicker.

And when she opened it—she saw drawings she'd never seen before.

Girls that weren't any of them.

And girls that were.

Wearing different clothes.

Smiling in places the house didn't have.

All signed:

"Reya. Loop 2."

Tara dropped it.

Stumbled backward.

Her mind raced.

Loop?

What did that mean?

She turned to the third pedestal.

A name tag.

Frayed. Torn in half.

It said:

"M__A"

Only two letters remained.

She didn't know if it was Mina or Marin or someone else entirely.

She moved on.

The fourth pedestal was the smallest.

It held a single crutch.

Tara felt her throat tighten.

The padding on the top was torn—same as Aria's.

But this one was rusted. Bent. Decayed.

She reached toward it.

The second her fingers brushed the wood, her knees buckled.

She gasped, falling to the ground as pain shot through her leg.

Not real pain.

Not her pain.

A memory.

A moment.

A weight in her muscles that wasn't hers.

When she stood again, the fifth pedestal came into view.

A music box.

Old-fashioned. Copper. Still closed.

She wound the key on the side.

The melody it played was slow.

Off-key.

Haunting.

Tara didn't know the song.

But her chest ached.

And tears pricked her eyes.

Like some part of her had known it once.

The name etched into the underside:

"Naomi. Loop 1."

Then came the sixth pedestal.

Empty.

At first.

But as she stepped closer, something appeared on the wood.

A photograph.

It wasn't there before.

It showed her.

Tara.

Standing in this room.

Looking at the sixth pedestal.

Holding this very photo.

The moment looped.

She dropped it, breath ragged.

This couldn't be real.

This wasn't happening.

And yet—it was.

The back wall caught her attention.

A smear of chalk and ash, almost erased by time.

She squinted, tracing the letters with her eyes.

They spelled:

"She never leaves. She only forgets."

Beneath that, fainter:

"To remember is to suffer.

To suffer is to resist.

Resist long enough… and she notices."

Tara felt something move in the darkness.

Not behind her.

Above.

She looked up.

And saw nothing.

But the feeling stayed.

A pressure.

A gaze.

As if something in the house had woken up the second she stepped into this room.

She backed out slowly.

Didn't run.

Didn't cry.

She couldn't afford to.

Not now.

The loops were real.

The objects were remnants.

The girls… weren't the first.

Maybe not even the second.

Maybe not even herself.

Outside the room, the hallway stretched longer than before.

The fork was gone.

Only one path remained.

Forward.

As she walked, her hand brushed the wall.

And she felt it ripple.

Like skin.

When she finally emerged into the main house again, the light was dim.

Not morning.

Not evening.

Timeless.

She went straight to the mirror in the west parlor.

It didn't reflect her anymore.

Only the six pedestals.

Waiting.

She didn't speak when Reya passed her in the hallway.

Didn't flinch when Aria limped by with wide, searching eyes.

But when Sofi whispered, "Did you find something?"—Tara nodded.

And whispered back:

"Everything."