Chapter One: The House That Remembered
The house stood at the edge of the hill like it had been forgotten by time itself. Its windows were tall and narrow, its walls pale with age, and its roof bent slightly under the weight of many silent years. No one in the village could remember when it was built, or who had lived there first. Some said it had always been there. Others believed it appeared only when someone needed it.
Maya stood at the iron gate, her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her small travel bag. The wind brushed past her face, carrying the smell of damp earth and old wood. She had traveled far to reach this place, farther than she had ever gone before. Yet, as she stared at the house, a strange feeling settled in her chest not fear, but recognition.
"It's just a house," she whispered to herself.
But the house did not feel like just a house.
Behind her, the road curved down toward the village, a cluster of small homes with tin roofs and narrow paths. The villagers had been kind but quiet. When Maya had asked about the house, their smiles had tightened, and their eyes had shifted away.
"Stay as long as you like," an old woman had told her earlier that morning. "But listen to the house. It speaks in its own way."
Maya had laughed then, thinking it was just a figure of speech. Now, standing before the tall wooden door, she wasn't so sure.
She pushed the gate open. It creaked loudly, as if protesting the movement after years of stillness. With each step toward the house, her heartbeat grew louder in her ears. The front door was unlocked.
That surprised her.
She hesitated only for a moment before turning the handle.
The door opened easily.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of dust and something older memories, perhaps. Sunlight slipped through the tall windows, painting long golden lines across the wooden floor. The house was empty, yet it didn't feel abandoned. It felt… waiting.
Maya stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
The sound echoed through the hall, deep and hollow.
She stood still, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No whispers. No movement.
And yet, she felt watched.
The entrance opened into a wide hallway with doors on either side and a staircase at the end. The walls were bare, except for faint marks where pictures must have once hung. Maya ran her fingers over the wood. It was smooth, warm under her touch.
"This is where I'm supposed to be," she said softly, surprising herself.
She didn't know why she felt that way. All she knew was that ever since she had received the letter, her life had slowly pulled her toward this moment.
The letter had arrived three weeks ago, without a return address. The paper was thick and cream-colored, the handwriting neat but unfamiliar.
You do not know this house, it had read.
But the house knows you.
If you wish to understand what was lost, come before the first winter rain.
That was all.
No name. No explanation.
At first, Maya had tried to ignore it. She had a job in the city, a small apartment, a routine that kept her days predictable and safe. But the words of the letter followed her everywhere. They appeared in her dreams, in the reflection of windows, in the quiet moments just before sleep.
"What was lost?" she had whispered again and again.
Eventually, she packed her bag and came.
Now she was here.
Maya explored the ground floor slowly.
There was a living room with a cold fireplace, a dining room with a long wooden table, and a kitchen that still held a few cracked plates and rusted utensils. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, except the windows.
The windows were perfectly clean.
That made her uneasy.
She stopped in front of the largest window, which faced the forest behind the house. Tall trees stood close together, their branches tangled like old thoughts. The glass reflected her face tired eyes, loose hair, a question she couldn't yet ask.
As she turned away, something changed.
For just a second, the reflection did not move with her.
Maya froze.
Slowly, she turned back toward the window.
Her reflection stared at her.
Then it blinked.
Maya stumbled backward, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded painfully as she looked again.
It was normal now.
Just glass. Just her face.
"I'm imagining things," she said, though her voice shook.
She pressed a hand to her chest and laughed nervously. "Travel does that to you."
Still, she avoided the windows as she climbed the staircase.
Upstairs, the hallway was narrower. Several doors lined the walls, most of them closed. At the very end stood one door slightly open, light spilling from inside.
Maya walked toward it.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
She pushed the door open.
Inside was a bedroom.
A single bed stood against the wall, neatly made with white sheets. A small desk sat beneath the window, and on it lay a leather bound notebook.
Maya's breath caught.
She knew that notebook.
She had never seen it before, yet she was certain it belonged to her.
She picked it up with trembling hands. The leather was worn, the edges soft, as if it had been held many times. There was no title on the cover.
She opened it.
The first page was blank.
The second page was not.
You came, the words read.
I was hoping you would.
Maya dropped the notebook onto the bed as if it had burned her.
"No," she whispered. "This isn't possible."
Her hands shook as she picked it up again. The handwriting was the same as the letter.
She turned the page.
This house remembers what you forgot.
So will I.
"Who are you?" Maya asked the empty room.
The room answered with silence.
She sat on the bed, her knees weak, and stared at the notebook. Part of her wanted to run out of the house, down the hill, back to the safety of familiar streets. But another part, deeper and stronger, knew she wouldn't leave.
Not yet.
She turned another page.
Words appeared slowly, as if being written in real time.
Once, you lived here.
Maya's breath caught.
"That's not true," she said. "I've never been here before."
The notebook did not respond immediately.
Then:
You have been here more times than you remember.
A memory stirred faint and fragile. The sound of laughter. A warm hand holding hers. A voice calling her name from somewhere far away.
Maya pressed her eyes shut.
"I don't remember," she whispered.
The notebook grew heavier in her hands.
That is why you came.
The floor creaked softly behind her.
Maya turned sharply.
The room was still empty.
Yet the feeling of being watched returned, stronger than before.
The window behind the desk reflected the room — the bed, the door, Maya holding the notebook.
And someone else.
A tall figure stood just behind her, blurred and shadowed, its face hidden.
Maya spun around.
Nothing.
Her heart raced as she looked back at the window.
The reflection showed only her now.
She stood, her legs trembling, and backed away from the desk.
"This house is playing tricks," she said aloud. "That's all."
But the house remained silent, patient.
Maya clutched the notebook to her chest. Whatever this place was, whatever secrets it held, she knew one thing for certain.
The house had been waiting for her.
And it would not let her leave until she remembered everything.