The House We Couldn't Leave

The sound came from behind the wall.

Not the groaning floorboards or the whispering pipes. Not the wind that rattled the windowpanes or the cries that sometimes echoed down the chimney at night.

This sound was soft. Musical.

A lullaby.

Sofi heard it first.

She had risen early that morning, before anyone else stirred. The others still slept—or pretended to. Tara, silent beneath her blanket. Mina, unmoving except for the twitch of her eyes. Aria, Reya, Lina—all curled in their own corners of the dark.

But Sofi had heard the song.

It came from the east wing.

The forbidden wing.

The place Mr. Calden never let them enter.

She slipped through the hallway like a whisper, barefoot on creaky floorboards, guided only by the tune.

It wasn't a song she knew. It had no words.

Just soft notes drifting through the cracked wallpaper. Notes that felt... familiar.

She passed the portrait gallery, where all the eyes seemed to turn at once. Down the narrow corridor with the wall sconces that hadn't held candles in years. Past the faded red door with a keyhole shaped like a flower.

Until she reached the end.

The east wing.

The door stood ajar.

Sofi hesitated.

Every rule they'd been given—unspoken, unexplained—told them not to come here.

Mr. Calden's voice echoed in her mind: "My wife is resting upstairs. She doesn't come down anymore."

But the voice behind the wall was awake.

Still singing.

Still calling.

She stepped through the door.

The hall beyond was darker than the others. Narrower. The wallpaper here hadn't peeled—it had been scratched. Not clawed or torn but scraped in strange, swirling patterns like someone had tried to draw music on the walls.

The air smelled of lavender and salt.

As if the house had tried to remember what perfume was.

Sofi followed the song.

She found the music room at the far end.

A long-forgotten parlor with cracked tiles and shattered instruments. A harp with broken strings. A cello with no bow. A piano missing half its keys.

But in the center of the room was a chair.

And in the chair sat a woman.

Her face was turned away, cloaked in shadow.

Long hair, dark as rust, fell over her shoulders. Her back was straight. Her dress was made of black lace—too fine for dust to settle on it.

She sang softly.

And with every note, the cracks in the walls stitched shut a little more.

Sofi's mouth went dry.

She took a step forward.

The song stopped.

The woman did not turn.

"I've waited a long time," the woman said. Her voice was low. Smoky. Sad.

Sofi opened her mouth. "Are you…"

"The wife," the woman answered. "Yes."

She turned her head—just slightly.

But where her face should have been, there was only shadow. No features. No eyes. No lips. Only a blur, like the house refused to remember her clearly.

"I'm sorry," Sofi whispered.

"You shouldn't be here," the wife said.

"I heard you singing."

"Then the house wanted you to hear."

Sofi moved closer.

"I want to understand. What happened to you?"

The woman didn't answer for a long time.

Then, slowly, she reached toward the floor and lifted something.

A violin.

Old. Cracked. But strung.

She placed it on her shoulder. Drew the bow across the strings.

The sound that came out wasn't music.

It was a memory.

Sofi fell to her knees.

Her mind filled with flashes. Images not her own.

A younger Mr. Calden standing in front of this very chair, his eyes alight. A girl—only a child—being handed a sheet of music. The same tune that had lured Sofi to the door.

Then came the screaming.

Notes warped into cries.

Hands pounding walls.

The girl disappeared. The wife stopped smiling.

The music turned black.

Sofi blinked, and she was back in the room.

The woman lowered the violin.

"The house keeps what it's given," she said softly. "My voice was the first. Yours will be the last."

Sofi backed away. "No. I don't want to stay here."

"You already have."

The woman raised her hand—and for a second, her fingers split like strings. Each fingertip unraveling into threads of melody.

"I can teach you," she said. "The house likes to be sung to."

Sofi ran.

She didn't remember how she got back to the main parlor.

The others were gathered there—awake now, pacing, arguing.

Aria spotted her first.

"Sofi! Where were you?"

Sofi opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

She clutched her throat.

"What's wrong?" Tara stood, crossing the room quickly. "Are you hurt?"

Sofi shook her head. Then nodded. Then covered her ears.

"I heard her," she whispered. "She's still singing."

The group stared at her in silence.

Reya was the first to move. She poured Sofi a glass of water. "Take a breath. Tell us everything."

And so she did.

The hallway.

The music.

The violin

The woman with no face.

"She wants me to sing," Sofi said. "She said I was the last."

"The last what?" Mina asked.

"She didn't say."

But Tara had gone still.

Aria noticed. "What is it?"

Tara looked at the fireplace.

"She said she gave herself to the house. Remember? That's what the voice told us."

"You think the house feeds on us?" Reya asked.

Tara nodded. "Piece by piece."

They fell into silence again.

Then Mina stood. She opened the map Reya had drawn the week before.

"We're going to the east wing. All of us."

Sofi blinked. "You don't have to—"

"Yes, we do," Mina said firmly. "No more secrets. No more splitting up. If there's a woman in that chair, and she knows the truth… we're going to ask her."

"But she has no face," Sofi whispered.

"Then we'll bring a mirror," said Mina.