Morning came with sunlight pretending everything was fine.
It always does that — shines too bright when things start to go strange.
I stretched, yawned, and immediately noticed two odd things:
one, my blanket was warm even though the fireplace was cold;
two, something was humming under the floor — the same tune I hummed last night before falling asleep.
That was weird.
I never hum loud enough for walls to learn.
I got up slowly. "Hello?"
Nothing answered, but the air in front of me rippled faintly — like a sigh hiding behind a smile.
Then, from the corner of the room, came a familiar voice.
"You shouldn't talk to the house."
The ghost girl.
She peeked out from behind the wardrobe — half-visible, half-smoky — her usual grin missing.
I blinked. "You came back."
"Don't sound so happy," she muttered. "You don't know what you did."
"What did I do?"
"You listened."
Her voice cracked a little. It almost sounded… scared.
She floated closer, her glow dimmer than usual. "The garden called you. You answered inside your mind, didn't you?"
I tilted my head. "I just—thought of going outside."
"That's enough," she whispered. "It knows you now."
Before I could ask who it was, the mirror near the door fogged up.
No breeze, no steam — just fog, rising from nowhere.
I leaned closer. "Weird. The mirror's breathing."
The ghost girl stepped back fast. "Don't look into it!"
Too late.
For a second, I saw myself in that cloudy glass — except the reflection was smiling before I did.
Then it faded, leaving only my outline and a thin handprint pressed against the other side.
My stomach twisted. "Did… did that thing just wave at me?"
The ghost didn't answer. She was trembling, fading in and out like a candle in wind.
"Where's your brother?" she asked, her tone suddenly sharp. "Find him. Don't stay alone in this room."
"Why?"
"Because the house thinks you're home."
Then she vanished — gone so fast the air snapped behind her.
I stood there, frozen, staring at the mirror that still looked faintly fogged.
And just before I turned away, I saw letters appear in the mist — drawn by an unseen finger:
Welcome back.
The same words I'd heard before.
Only this time, the handwriting looked familiar.
Mine.