04/15/2026
Some hearts are not meant to be lived in—they are haunted.
Behind their doors, something lingers. Not seen, never named… but always there. It moves in the spaces between breaths, in the hollow stretch of silence after a thought fades. You can feel it watching, waiting, as if the walls themselves remember what once was and refuse to let it rest.
There are cries within—but they do not sound like cries. They twist and return to you as echoes, warped and unfamiliar, until you begin to wonder if the grief is yours at all… or something the house has learned to mimic.
The cold is not just temperature. It is a presence. It seeps through the floorboards, crawls up the spine, settles into the marrow. It is the kind of cold that doesn’t make you shiver—it makes you forget what warmth ever felt like.
Every room is steeped in it. Every corner breathes it out.
And the silence… the silence is the worst part. Heavy. Pressing. Alive. It stretches endlessly, broken only by the slow, relentless thud of a heartbeat that feels too loud, too alone—like it doesn’t belong in a place so utterly empty.
It was devastatingly beautiful once, that house.
Grand. Full of light. Built to hold laughter, to cradle life.
Now it stands abandoned in spirit, even if its doors remain open. Forgotten. Unloved. Left to rot with its memories clawing at the walls.
Because this house does not protect what enters it.
It does not comfort.
It does not keep you safe.
It consumes.
And once it knows your name… it never lets you leave.
