The Observing House

I should not have come back. This place... it breathes. Not like a

living thing, but like a memory that refuses to die. The air itself

feels heavy. The silence is too heavy. Every creak feels like a footstep

just out of sight, timed perfectly to my own heartbeat. Something is watching

me. The geometry is wrong. I turned left, but the stairs

are gone. Objects move when I blink. The house is rearranging itself around

me like a trap. Even my own reflection feels like a stranger.

It is watching me, waiting for me to look away. I am not