The House We Couldn't Leave

Tara didn't forget.

Not like the others.

When Reya began sketching doors that weren't there, Tara already knew where they'd been. When Aria questioned time, Tara had long since stopped trusting clocks. And when Sofi whispered Lina's name with tearful confusion, Tara felt an ache like déjà vu—sharp, hot, and buried too deep to pull out.

She didn't forget. She remembered wrong.

It started days ago. Or weeks? She couldn't tell anymore.

She'd see a hallway and feel it used to turn left, not right. She'd pass a mirror and flinch, not at her reflection, but at the absence of someone who used to stand beside her.

Even the girls—she looked at them sometimes and thought: That's not the first time you've cried in that room. Or You wore that dress the day we all tried to run. Didn't you?

But she never said any of it out loud.

Because they weren't ready.

Because if she told them what she really remembered, it might break them.

Tara sat alone in the west corridor, one hand on her crutch, the other pressed to the wall.

The wallpaper here was wrong. It wasn't torn or stained—it was too clean.

As if it had been replaced.

She traced the seam with her fingertip. Something pulsed beneath it.

The house was watching again.

A footstep behind her.

Not loud. Not sneaky.

Just… heavy.

She turned.

Mr. Calden stood at the end of the hall, just past the edge of the shadow. His coat brushed the floor like always. His umbrella was tucked under one arm, even though it hadn't rained in days. Or had it?

His eyes looked dimmer than she remembered.

"You shouldn't be here alone," he said softly.

"I wasn't alone," Tara replied. "Not really."

He tilted his head. "Meaning?"

"The house is here."

"Ah."

Silence stretched between them.

She stood slowly, gripping the crutch more for habit than need.

"You know it's doing something to us," she said.

Mr. Calden did not blink. "Do I?"

"Yes. You do."

"You're a clever girl, Tara."

That made her flinch.

He rarely used her name.

He looked down the hallway. "The house does not hurt anyone who belongs."

"I don't belong."

"No. But you've stayed."

She stepped closer.

"Where's Lina?"

A long pause.

Then: "Who?"

Her jaw clenched. "You know who."

"She left," he said at last. "That's all you need."

"She didn't leave. She disappeared. No one talks about her. No one cries. They can't even remember her voice."

"Because it's easier that way."

Tara took another step forward. "Easier for you?"

"Easier for them."

He looked at her now, really looked. There was something behind his pale eyes. Not pity. Not anger.

Just… calm inevitability.

"You remember too much," he said.

Tara swallowed hard. "Why?"

He gave the faintest smile. "Because you're meant to."

Later, back in her room, Tara unwrapped the bandage around her leg.

She flexed her foot.

Walked two steps without the crutch.

No pain.

No weakness.

The house knew.

And it wanted her to pretend.

But she wouldn't.

Not forever.

That night, she opened the notebook she kept hidden behind the cracked mirror.

Not a sketchbook like Reya's.

Not a chalk log like Aria's.

Just a plain, dog-eared journal with pages full of lines that looped and crossed and rewrote themselves a hundred times.

Some were names.

Some were rules.

Some were things she'd seen before—in previous times.

She flipped to the last page.

Things I Know Are Real

Reya once lost her voice for a week. No one remembers.

There used to be a staircase behind the kitchen. Now it's a wall.

Mr. Calden never eats. Never blinks.

Lina had a sister. But I can't remember her name.

I wasn't always the one with the crutch.

The house lets you live if you lie.

She added one more line:

Mr. Calden is not just old.

At breakfast, no one noticed her hand shaking.

No one saw her limp lessen.

But when Sofi caught her eye, just for a moment, Tara thought she saw understanding.

Or maybe fear.

Later, in the attic, Reya showed them another drawing.

A door at the end of the hall—one none of them had seen.

Except Tara.

"I tried that door," she said.

"When?" Mina asked.

"Last week."

"It wasn't there last week."

"Yes," Tara said, voice quiet. "It was."

That night, she dreamed of mirrors cracking.

But when she woke up, her reflection in the wardrobe mirror was whole.

Smiling.

Only—she wasn't.