When I woke up, I didn't know where I was.
That's normal for me, by the way — my dreams and reality are like twins who keep swapping places.
But this time, the air was… different.
Warm sunlight was touching my skin, and for a second, I almost believed I could see it.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes out of habit (yes, I know, pointless).
The bed sheets were soft — silk maybe? Or some material that monks definitely never owned.
And then there was the smell — clean, quiet, but old. Like rain trapped inside stone walls.
My ghost friend was perched on the ceiling, upside down like she owned the place.
"Morning, duck," she said, swinging her legs in the air.
"You snore."
"I do not snore," I argued automatically.
Wait—
I just answered her again.
That's two days in a row.
I'm losing my good habits.
Anyway, I ignored her teasing and tried to feel around the room.
My fingertips brushed along carved wood — smooth, detailed, cold. The walls weren't flat like at the temple. They had designs. Patterns that pulsed faintly when I touched them, like the wall was alive and politely saying, "Hello."
That's when footsteps echoed from outside the door.
More than one pair. Light ones, careful, like people carrying invisible trays of tension.
The door slid open with a soft click, and a gentle voice said,
"You're awake, miss."
Miss??
Excuse me, who promoted me overnight?
I turned my head toward the sound. "Uh… yes. I think."
The voice laughed — soft, musical, older than it sounded. "Breakfast is ready. The master said you might wake soon."
"The master," I repeated, "as in… my brother?"
"Yes," she said, and something about the way she said it made me think that wasn't his only title.
But I didn't ask.
I've learned that asking questions here leads to more confusion than answers.
I followed the voice's direction carefully, using the wall and my pendant's faint glow to guide me.
Every few steps, I could sense soft movements around me — people passing by, bowing slightly, some even murmuring a greeting.
Not to me exactly — more like… around me.
And they all felt the same — polite but uneasy.
Like they were handling something fragile.
Or dangerous.
Or both.
We reached a big hall. The smell of food instantly filled the air — rice, herbs, maybe fruit? My stomach reminded me that I hadn't eaten since the temple.
Then I heard his voice — calm, steady, impossible to ignore.
"Sit."
I found the chair easily — his tone was like a compass.
"Good morning," I said, trying to sound casual.
He just replied with a quiet, "Eat."
The silence between us stretched for a moment, filled only by the sound of chopsticks clinking and my ghost friend whispering something about "royal treatment."
When I finished, I leaned back and said softly,
"This place… it feels like it's watching."
He didn't answer right away.
Just poured tea — the sound of it clear and steady — before finally saying,
"It always has."
And that's it. No explanation. No "don't worry," no "you're imagining things."
Just that simple truth, dropped on the table like another dish I didn't order.
Later, when I was alone, I wandered down a corridor — my hands brushing the walls again.
Everywhere I touched, the faint hum answered.
And for a strange, brief second… I thought I heard laughter — a child's giggle — echoing through the stones.
It wasn't scary.
It was… welcoming.
Maybe this house wasn't haunted after all.
Maybe it was alive.