The House We Couldn't Leave

The sketch changed when she looked away.

Reya had been drawing in the second-floor sitting room, nestled into the deep cushions of a dust-cloaked chair, her knees pulled up for warmth. The storm outside rattled the tall windows behind her, and the candle beside her cast long, uneven shadows across the page.

She'd started with the east hallway—specifically, the long stretch near the nursery. She knew every corner, every worn floorboard, every crack in the wall. She'd walked it a hundred times, felt the cold spots and heard the floor whisper under her steps.

So when she looked down and saw an extra door at the end of her sketch, her stomach flipped.

She hadn't drawn that.

But it was there now.

Black.

Tall.

Unmarked

Closed.

She blinked hard and flipped to a fresh page, determined to redraw from memory, without looking at the first.

Her hand moved slowly, lines familiar, deliberate

She glanced back once, just to compare.

Now there were two doors.

Reya closed the sketchbook and shoved it under her leg like that would stop it from thinking.

Her breath fogged in the cold air, heart thudding.

She looked around the room.

Empty, quiet

The house watched.

She could feel it in the way the shadows pooled, not just cast.

Like they were choosing where to fall.

The first time she noticed her drawings changing, it had been easy to dismiss. Maybe she'd added the detail and forgotten. Maybe she had drawn the girl's hand reaching out of the mirror by accident. Maybe her sleep-deprived mind was mixing dreams with memory.

But today…

Today she was awake.

Wide awake.

And still the sketchbook defied her.

Later, in the nursery, Reya found Sofi curled in a ball with Pip tucked under her chin.

The room felt… wrong.

Off-center

The crib Tara had once checked now sat empty, nameplate removed.

But it used to say Tara.

Didn't it?

Now it just said:

"She's not here anymore."

"Sofi," Reya whispered.

The younger girl peeked up from under the blanket. Her eyes were glassy and too wide.

"Do you remember what Lina looked like?" Reya asked gently.

Sofi frowned. "Yes. No. I think."

"Hair like yours, right?"

"No. Darker." She hugged the doll tighter. "Maybe."

Reya nodded and sat beside her.

She opened the sketchbook slowly, flipping past the hallway pages until she reached the last one.

A girl stared up at her from the page.

Long dark hair. Freckles. Mismatched eyes.

A name scrawled in shaky pencil beneath:

"Naomi."

Reya didn't remember drawing her.

But she felt like she'd met her.

Sofi glanced at the drawing.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know," Reya lied

Because if she said the name aloud again, she feared it would slip from her forever.

That night, she locked the sketchbook inside a dresser drawer.

She tied a red ribbon around the knob. Not for security. For certainty

If the ribbon was moved, she'd know.

If the drawer opened, she'd remember.

She wrote it down too—on the back of her hand.

"Sketchbook = Naomi = real?"

Then she slept.

She woke up cold.

The candle had burned out.

The red ribbon was gone.

The drawer was open.

And the sketchbook sat on her bed.

Page open.

Naomi's eyes had been colored in.

Reya screamed.

It wasn't loud. It didn't wake the others.

The house swallowed it.

She clutched the sketchbook and ran down the hallway in bare feet, not caring where she went, just needing to get away.

Every step echoed louder than it should.

She reached the east hallway.

Stopped.

There it was.

The black door.

Just like in her drawing.

She should've turned back.

But something pulled at her—a thread from her chest, tight and invisible.

She reached for the knob.

It was warm.

She opened it.

Inside, the room was lined with mirrors.

Dozens of them.

Some were cracked. Others fogged. A few covered with dusty sheets.

But they all showed different versions of her.

Reya at ten. Reya with dyed hair. Reya with blood on her shirt. Reya curled on the floor, whispering to herself.

And in the center mirror—Naomi.

Not a reflection.

Not a trick.

Naomi stood in the glass.

Smiling.

Reya stepped closer.

The girl mirrored her movements.

But only for a moment.

Then Naomi mouthed words:

"We were here before."

Reya's fingers trembled.

She mouthed back: "When?"

Naomi touched the glass.

It shimmered.

Behind her, dozens of girls stood in shadow.

Their faces lost.

Their eyes glowing.

One by one, they faded.

Until only Naomi remained.

She whispered again:

"You drew me once. You'll draw me again."

Then—

Her smile turned sad.

She raised a hand.

Pointed.

At Reya's chest.

And mouthed one last thing:

→"You forgot yourself too."

The mirror shattered

Reya fell back, heart racing.

When she opened her eyes, the room was empty.

No mirrors.

No door.

Just a blank wall.

She ran.

She didn't stop until she reached her bedroom.

She grabbed a pen.

Flipped open the sketchbook.

The last page now showed Reya—standing in front of a mirror, eyes wide, mouth open.

The mirror in the drawing was shattered.

In the corner: a signature.

Naomi.