After breakfast — or whatever that humming thing was — I decided to explore.
No one told me not to, and that usually means yes.
The ghost girl didn't come along.
I think she was still sulking after that warning from my brother.
Good. My ears needed a vacation.
The hallway stretched out like it was trying to see how far it could go before someone noticed.
Every step I took made a soft click under my feet.
It wasn't wood or tile… it felt more like heartbeat sounds, faint and steady.
The first door I touched gave a soft sigh — like it was relieved someone remembered it existed.
I smiled without meaning to. "Hello," I whispered.
The knob turned on its own, as if bowing.
That's when I started to think maybe this house liked me.
Inside, the room smelled like dust and rain-soaked pages.
There were shelves full of books — or maybe not books, because when I brushed my hand over the covers, they shivered slightly.
Some of them hummed under my fingers.
One whispered a word I couldn't catch.
I should've been scared.
But after years of seeing ghosts and pretending not to, a room full of breathing furniture wasn't even top ten weird.
Something moved behind me — quiet, slow.
I turned, expecting the ghost girl.
Instead, the air felt… cold but gentle. Like someone invisible had brushed my hair back.
For a second, I thought I heard a whisper — not from a ghost, not from a book.
From the house itself.
"Welcome back."
I froze.
Back?
My lips parted, but before I could say anything, footsteps echoed in the hall — sharp, certain.
My brother's.
He stopped at the door. "You wandered far."
I shrugged. "I was saying hello to your furniture."
He stared for a moment. "…Did it answer?"
"Maybe."
That tiny muscle near his jaw twitched again — the one that meant he didn't know whether to scold me or call an exorcist.
He looked around the room once, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Then, very quietly, he said something under his breath — a string of syllables I couldn't understand.
The air in the room trembled — and the whispering stopped.
He turned to me. "If the walls talk again, don't answer."
I frowned. "Why?"
"They remember voices," he said, same tone as before. "And they don't forget easily."
Then he walked out, leaving the door half-open.
I stood there, listening to the silence slowly fill the room again.
Only this time, it didn't feel empty.
Somewhere deep inside the walls, faint but certain, I heard it again — softer, warmer:
"Welcome back."