The House of Echoes

Home. The silence usually feels welcoming. Tonight, it feels like

a long, held breath. Just an old house settling into the ground.

Or so I tell myself. Memory is a fickle thing. It reshapes the

walls while you are not looking. Did the hallway get longer? Or am I

just getting smaller within these growing shadows? A whisper from the vents.

A name I have not heard in twenty years. I look in the mirror to

find myself. But that face... that is not me. The house remembers

who lived here. Even if I have tried so hard to forget. Reality is a