The house was too quiet that evening.
Even the rain outside had decided to take a nap.
I sat near the fireplace — though it didn't burn wood, just glowed softly with a strange, colorless light that gave no heat.
I kept my hands near it anyway. Habit, I guess. Warmth is more about pretending than feeling.
Rin had gone to do "his listening rounds."
The ghost girl was humming somewhere upstairs again — distant, careful, as if she didn't want me to hear the words.
I didn't respond. I never do. Or… I never did.
Until today.
That thought stung like a paper cut.
Why did I respond? Why to her, of all things?
Something in her voice — lonely, tired — had made me forget my own rule.
Never talk to the dead.
They always remember you when you do.
I leaned back and let my head rest against the old armchair. Its fabric sighed softly beneath me.
And then — I heard voices.
Two of them. Muffled, like the speakers were standing just outside the door.
"…she shouldn't be here," one whispered. A woman, maybe middle-aged. "He'll find out."
"He already knows," said another — deeper, male, uneasy. "Everyone felt it the moment she arrived. The walls woke up."
"Then we're doomed."
Silence.
The next voice was sharper, closer. "Do you understand what it means if it's her?"
I held my breath.
If it's her?
The woman hissed, "Don't say that name. Not in this house."
"I didn't—"
The man stopped suddenly. I heard the sound of someone stumbling back — a quiet, heavy thud — and then, silence.
A new voice spoke — calm, unhurried, and soft enough to freeze my spine.
"That name," it said, "is not yours to speak."
The air changed.
Even through the door, I could feel it — a cold pulse that filled the hallway, like the entire building was holding its breath.
Someone — no, everyone — was afraid of that voice.
I didn't know why, but I wanted to move closer.
It felt familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
"Return to your quarters," the voice said. "And remember what you serve."
Then — silence again.
Steps fading away.
And for a moment, I thought I heard the faint jingle of bells — Rin, somewhere far off, pausing mid-step as if he'd felt it too.
When I finally opened the door, the hall was empty.
No sign of the speakers. No echo of the man who'd silenced them.
Only the wall beside the doorway — warm under my palm again — pulsing faintly, as if it had heard everything.
And when I whispered, "Who was that voice?"
The wall didn't answer.
But somewhere above me, the ghost girl whispered, almost tenderly:
"You'll remember soon."