The visions faded slowly, like smoke thinning in cold air, but they never truly left. They lingered at the edges of my mind—snatches of voices, glances, entire lives that were not mine, yet clung as if they belonged.
Annabelle steadied herself, gripping the edge of the chest.
And then… it wasn't empty anymore.
A single object lay within—quiet, deliberate, as if it had always existed, waiting only for us to notice.
A key.
Small. Metallic. Old enough to be older than the house itself. Its surface etched with the same runes carved into the floor—symbols now faintly glowing, pulsing in time with the heartbeat of the house.
Annabelle reached for it.
Just before her fingers touched the metal, the air shifted—sharp, cold, warning.
A voice whispered:
"Only the chosen."
She froze. Her eyes flicked to mine—not in fear, but in quiet resignation.
"I think… it means me."
I shook my head instinctively. "We don't know what it unlocks. We don't know what it wants from you."
Her voice softened. "I do."
She lifted the key.
The runes ignited in soft light. Not blinding. Not violent. Just inevitable.
The floor beneath us vibrated, a deep rumble like distant thunder. Dust drifted from the beams overhead. Somewhere above, a door slammed—though no breeze touched us.
The house was responding.
Annabelle bowed her head, listening to something only she could hear.
"They're not angry," she murmured. "They're… desperate."
"For what?" I asked, swallowing hard.
"To be remembered. To be witnessed. To not disappear."
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with sorrow.
The key pulsed in her hand, warm and insistent. The runes on the floor shifted, sliding like liquid metal until their alignment pointed toward the far wall.
A wall that had always seemed solid now betrayed a seam.
Stone grated against stone—ancient, reluctant—as a hidden door slowly opened, revealing a narrow corridor swallowed by darkness.
Something cold brushed past us—like grief given shape.
Annabelle didn't flinch.
I did.
She glanced over her shoulder, voice soft but steady:
"You don't have to come if you're afraid."
"I'm afraid," I admitted. "But I'm not leaving you."
Her expression didn't soften with relief. It didn't need to. It registered recognition. As if she already knew the answer.
We crossed the threshold.
The corridor walls were alive with carvings—names, dates, symbols. Some scratched frantically, others deliberate, almost reverent. Messages scratched in desperate clarity:
I'm still here.
Don't forget us.
The woods choose. The house remembers.
Other inscriptions were indecipherable, written in languages we could not understand.
Candles flared to life on their own as we walked—dozens, casting a warm amber glow across the stone corridor.
At the end, a heavy wooden door awaited.
The same runes marked its surface.
The key pulsed in Annabelle's hand. She glanced at me one last time—not for permission, but for grounding.
Then she turned it.
It moved smoothly, silently, not with the grind of metal but with the soft exhale of relief.
The door swung open.
Inside, a circular chamber lay still and vast. Untouched by time. Perfect. Waiting.
In the center, a tall mirror rose from the floor.
Not dusty. Not cracked. Perfect.
Annabelle stepped forward, breath trembling. I followed, heart hammering.
Her reflection stared back—but it didn't mirror her movements.
When she blinked, it did not.
When she breathed, it stayed still.
Then it smiled.
Slowly. Patiently. Ancient.
Annabelle whispered:
"…She looks like me."
The reflection spoke—not aloud, but inside our skulls:
"No.
You look like us."
For the first time, Annabelle's fear was real.
Her small hand tightened around the key. And I knew, in that moment, that we had stepped fully into the house's memory—and whatever waited inside would not let us leave unchanged.