yuriforrest
Some houses do not forget.
Even when emptied, even when renamed, they remember the shape of voices, the way footsteps once paused near certain doors, the specific weight of longing in the air.
This house was never mine, and yet I returned to it.
They told me I had been ill. That I needed silence. That I should not be left alone, but neither watched too closely.
I believed them. Or I pretended to. Which is, often, the same thing.
There are stories that do not begin. They emerge, like stains, or heat, or hunger. They unfold backwards, sideways, beneath the skin. They wait for the right hour. Or the wrong person.
I cannot say where this one began. Perhaps with the arrival of Liraz. Or with the discovery of a key that opened no lock. Or with the dream of a voice counting down from thirty. Or with a photograph that should not have existed, and yet did.
But even those are only echoes.
What I can say is this: if you enter a room and feel watched, do not assume it is by the living.
If you read a letter and recognize your own voice, though you never wrote it, do not stop reading.
And if someone knocks from inside the walls do not answer.
ORIGINAL CONTENTENT
𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓽 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮 2022, 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓘 𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓽
"Memory is a house with no windows, we wander its halls searching for a door that might lead us home, only to find ourselves forever lost between the echoes."