So, "Home."
That's what he said.
But to me, it felt more like stepping inside someone else's memory — old, echoing, and politely haunted.
The car door opened with a sigh, and a soft wind brushed my face.
It wasn't an ordinary breeze. It carried a whisper — faint, like someone humming through time.
Even the ground felt… awake. Every step I took made the air listen.
My brother didn't say a word. (I'm starting to think silence is his first language.)
He just held my hand — warm, calm, steady — and guided me forward.
The ground changed from dirt to smooth stone, the air thick with incense and rain.
And then, I felt it — not just one gaze, but hundreds.
Quiet, patient, weightless eyes.
Normally, I ignore them.
That's my rule.
I see ghosts, I sense spirits, but I never talk to them. Never look, never react.
Because the moment you respond, they follow you.
But this place… was different.
The air itself was staring back.
Beside me, my ghost companion — the one who's been tagging along since I can remember — whispered,
"...They're watching."
That should've been normal background noise by now.
But this time, for some reason, I answered.
"Who?" I whispered back.
And then I froze.
Because that was the first time in my whole life I had ever replied to a ghost.
The words just slipped out — soft, nervous, like my mouth forgot the rule my heart remembered.
The ghost blinked at me (or, you know, whatever ghosts do when they blink) and said,
"Everything."
Everything.
Great. Just what I needed — a haunted house that stares back.
I didn't dare speak again. I just tightened my hold on my brother's sleeve.
He kept walking like he hadn't noticed my mini heart attack.
Then a door creaked open — the kind of creak that sounds like it's been waiting decades just to make a dramatic entrance.
Inside, I could hear murmurs — people talking softly, words slipping in and out of prayers.
The space felt wide, with air too still to be safe.
My ghost peeked from behind me. "They were expecting you," she said.
"Expecting me?" I whispered. "I didn't even know I was coming."
Before I could process that, one of the voices from inside spoke, calm and distant:
"Is that her?"
I nearly tripped.
Her who?
Why is everyone acting like I'm the main character of a play I didn't audition for?
My brother didn't flinch. "She'll be staying here," he said.
The room grew quiet. Not cold — just… respectful. Like a breath was being held.
I tugged on his sleeve. "Do they know me?"
He sighed softly. "You'll get used to it."
Used to what exactly??
No answer, of course. I'm starting to suspect he reads minds and only replies when it's least helpful.
Later that night, I lay on a bed that smelled like fresh rain and old stories.
The ghost was hovering near the ceiling, humming to herself, and I almost said something again… but stopped.
Once was enough for today.
Still, I couldn't help thinking — the way she'd said "They're watching"… it hadn't sounded scary.
It had sounded almost like recognition.