I didn't even bother fixing my hair that morning.
If the mirror was going to act creepy again, it could stare at a mess.
I ran through the halls until I found him — the brother — standing in that wide, silent room with the tall windows.
He was talking to someone on the phone, but his voice stopped the moment he saw my face.
"What happened?" he asked.
I held out my hand. "The mirror waved at me."
He blinked once. "…What?"
"I mean, my reflection smiled first, and then it wrote something. With my handwriting."
His calm expression didn't change, but the air around him tightened — like even the shadows stopped to listen.
"What did it write?"
"'Welcome back.'"
He was silent for a long moment, then said quietly, "So it's begun."
That was not comforting.
"What's begun? Is this house haunted by… handwriting?"
He actually sighed. The tired kind, like someone who's trying to explain algebra to a bird.
"Do you remember what the monk told you before you left?" he asked.
I frowned. "Something about fate. And that I shouldn't cry so much."
A tiny twitch appeared near his mouth again — probably the ghost of a smile. "Yes. That."
He looked out the window for a moment before saying, "This house isn't ordinary. It keeps memories — not just sounds or words, but people. Things that once lived or existed here… leave traces behind."
"So it's like a diary?" I asked.
He nodded slightly. "A diary that sometimes tries to write back."
That made my stomach do a slow, confused flip.
"And it knows me?"
"Not you," he said softly. "Someone it thinks you are."
I blinked. "That's even worse!"
He didn't deny it.
The room fell silent except for the faint rustle of curtains. Then he turned to face me fully.
"When the house calls you by a name you don't know," he said, "don't answer. That's how it learns. That's how it remembers."
I wanted to ask who it thought I was, but his eyes — calm, dark, too old for sixteen — stopped me.
It wasn't fear in them, but something heavier. Like he'd already asked those questions long ago and hadn't liked the answers.
"Stay close to me from now on," he said finally. "If it speaks again, let me hear it first."
I nodded slowly. "Okay. But if it tries to cook again, that's on you."
A quiet exhale escaped him — the closest thing to a laugh I'd heard so far.
He turned to leave, but before stepping out, he said something that clung to me for the rest of the day:
"The house doesn't lie. It only repeats what's been true before."
And as his footsteps faded down the hall, I thought of the words on the mirror —
Welcome back.
Maybe, somewhere deep down, the house wasn't wrong.