...
Echo burst through the door and stumbled down the stairs, heart pounding, broom clenched in his grip like a weapon. But everything was normal. Darkness gone. Blood vanish. The rot had no scent.
The soft golden light of late morning poured through the windows, painting warm squares across the wooden floor. The faint clatter of dishes came from the kitchen. Echo looked over his shoulder — the door behind him hung open, harmless. The terror from moments ago now seemed like a strange dream already slipping from his memory.
He stepped into the living room.
Ronald stood at the stove, back turned, a checkered apron tied around his waist. Something sizzled in a pan. The scent of fresh bread and herbs wafted through the air. Echo could almost taste it.
Across the room, Serik sat on the rug, fitting together a wooden puzzle with unnatural calm. His expression was blank, but his hands moved with mechanical precision, rotating each piece until it clicked perfectly into place.
"Ronald? You there?"
He said cautiously, stepping forward.
Ronald didn't respond. He stirred something in the pot, same rhythm, same motion.
"Ronald?"
No answer.
He glanced at Serik. The boy looked up and locked eyes with Echo. For a moment, neither moved.
Serik spoke in a flat, quiet voice:
"You're early. We haven't finished baking the lie yet."
"Right..."
Echo turned to the door, gripping the handle — only for it to writhe in his palm like wax under flame, sagging, and then dripping to the floor in sizzling globs.
"Huh?"
He stumbled back, blinking rapidly. His vision blurred, as though the air itself had thickened. For a moment, it felt like he was underwater — slow, distorted. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. When the haze cleared, Serik stood just a few feet away, silent as always.
"Dinner's ready."
His tone was flat. Not a child's excitement, just a statement. He turned and walked to the dining room.
Echo turned to the door again. He shoved it once, twice — but It won't budge. Not even a creak. It felt like pushing against a wall painted to look like a door.
With no other option, he crept toward the dining room, the hallway stretching longer than it should have. The moment he stepped across the threshold, the light shifted. Dimmer, and dustier. As if the room had aged a decade in seconds.
The dining table was set. Silverware polished, napkins folded. Hot dishes steamed gently across the cloth — steak, carrots, bread, soup — but everything looked sculpted rather than cooked.
Serik sat at the table, mechanically cutting into a slice of meat, chewing without expression. Across from him sat Ronald, his hands resting neatly on either side of his plate. His eyes were wide, and unblinking. As if they were about to pop.
He was smiling, not with joy. But with lips pulled back in a stiff, forced grin.
Echo sat down stiffly, the wood beneath him cold as stone. His eyes darted between Ronald and Serik, both still chewing like mannequins in motion. He tried to steady his breath. He looked down at his plate. The food appeared normal — some sliced meat, steamed roots, a piece of bread. He pick up his fork and stab at the meat. The moment metal pierced flesh, he blinked. The food changed and blinked back from the plate. Veined and wet, the pupil twitching wildly as if panicked.
He recoiled in horror, nearly dropping his fork. He turned to Serik, who continued eating as if nothing had changed. Echo slowly turned to Ronald and froze. Ronald smile was still there, but his eyes were gone. Black, hollow sockets stared back at Echo, thick streams of blood crawling down his cheeks like tears. The fork in Ronald's hand never stopped moving, lifting empty air to his gaping mouth as if the meal were still real to him.
He stumbled back, knocking over his chair as he hit the floor. The impact jolted his limbs, but not his terror. Scrambling to his feet, he sprinted toward the front door and grabbed for the handle, however there's no handle to grab.
He slammed both fists against the door, over and over.
Thud-thud-thud.
"Crap, crap crap!"
He turned around, The hallway twisted before his eyes. Walls stretched long and narrow, the lights flickering. The ceiling grew taller. The floorboards aged under his feet. The bright day outside faded into darkness, swallowed by a thick, unnatural night pressing against the windows. Serik stood at the threshold of the hallway, not even a single sound of footsteps.
"You shouldn't run from home, Echo. Not when the truth's still hungry."
He vanished through thin air.
Echo picked up the broom again — his flimsy guardian in a world that kept twisting under his feet. The house looked drained now, the color had been leeched from the walls. Everything seemed pale, trapped in some halfway state between dream and memory.
He crept through the hallway, glancing at every door. The kitchen. The dining room, all locked. He jiggled the handles, knocked softly, then harder— but it won't budge.
He turned to the living room. A woman sat quietly on the couch, her back straight, dress faded but neat, hair tied back like in an old photograph. Her pen scratched gently against a notebook balanced on her lap.
"That's her... the woman in the photo with Ronald and Serik."
Before he could say a word, she stood, and placed the notebook on a nearby shelf beside the framed pictures. Her footsteps made no sound.
She walked straight toward him. Echo gripped the broom tighter, ready to swing, but she passed through him.
He spun around, stunned, and watched her ascend the staircase, one silent step at a time. She didn't look back.
"Am I a ghost?"
He hesitated… then walked over to the shelf, eyes fixed on the notebook. His fingers brushed against the worn cover as he opened it to the page she had been writing.
The words were elegant but sharp:
"Ronald, I've written this more times than I can count, but I've finally made peace with the truth. This house… this life… it was never meant for me. I've met someone—someone who sees the world I want, not the one I'm trapped in. He has wealth, yes, but more than that, he offers escape. Don't look for me. And Serik… tell him I'm sorry I couldn't stay to be the mother he needed."
Echo stared at the page.
"What is this house trying to tell me…?"
He looked toward the stairs, where the ghostly woman had vanished moments ago.
Echo climbed the stairs, broom in hand— clutching the broom like It was a holy weapon. Each step creaked beneath his feet, the groan of old wood echoing through the silent house. Cobwebs clung to the corners, catching the pale light like strands of silver. Spiders scuttled away at his approach, vanishing into unseen cracks.
strange, sweet scent drifted through the air—rich and floral, but there wasn't a single flower in sight.
"There are no flowers here..."
He reached the top of the stairs, The air felt heavier up here. Ronald's room loomed at the end of the hall. Memories of blood, silence, and fear flooded back. He stepped toward the door and gripped the handle — but it didn't budge, locked.
He turned to the other door, Serik's room. As he approached, the soft hum of a lullaby drifted through the hallway again. That same haunting melody. It was coming from within.
Echo's hand trembled slightly as he reached for the knob. He pushed it open. The room was dim, cast in the blue glow of a clouded moon slipping through the window. Shadows hung like curtains across the floor and ceiling. In the center of the room, Serik lay in bed — not as the boy Echo knew, but a younger version. His small fists clutched the blanket near his chest. His eyelids fluttered, as if struggling to stay awake.
Beside him sat the woman from before. She hummed the lullaby gently, brushing her fingers through Serik's hair. Her voice was soft, almost too soft for the ear, yet it filled the room like a spell.
Serik's eyes drifted shut under the weight of her voice.
The woman leaned down and gave a gentle kiss on the cheek, then tucked the blanket around his shoulders with practiced tenderness. her fingers brushing through his hair as she whispered something in his ear. As she stood, she didn't glance at Echo, but walked toward the door, moving as though she had no need to acknowledge his presence.
And as if he wasn't even there, she passed through him. Echo could feel the air shift, her presence lingering for only a moment before she was gone.
He stood in the doorway, staring at the empty space where the woman had been. His eyes slowly shifted to Serik, still unconscious in his bed, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep.
"Serik... what are you trying to tell me?"
A sudden movement caught Echo's eye — beneath the bed, two yellow dots glowed like embers in the dark.
He took a step closer.
"A cat?"
The creature emerged silently, its sleek black fur absorbing the dim light. Its eyes, wide and unblinking, locked with Echo's for a brief moment before it padded past him and toward the hallway.
Then, the house shifted.
The oppressive gloom lifted as if a heavy curtain had been drawn away. Light poured in through the windows. The dusty air grew lighter, easier to breathe. The wood beneath his feet no longer creaked like bones, and for a fleeting moment, the house felt… alive again.
The cat sniffed at Echo's leg, circling before padding down the stairs without a sound. At the base of the stairs, it paused — tail flicking and then turned to look back at him.
"You… want me to follow you?"
He stepped forward. The cat resumed its descent. Another glance over its shoulder.
Echo followed.
The cat led him into the living room, where silence had taken residence. No voices, no strange smells. Just a child sitting on the floor surrounded by toys — wooden blocks, a tin spinning top, and a crude hand-carved bird, Serik.
The boy sat cross-legged, humming softly to himself as he guided the bird through the air with his hand, lost in a world of his own. The cat leapt lightly onto the couch — the same spot where the woman had sat before — and curled into a seated position, watching quietly.
Then came a loud slam from the front door. Echo flinched.
Ronald burst into the room, his face twisted in frustration. He held the woman's wrist tightly, dragging her inside as she fought to pull away.
"Let go of me! I said I was done, Ronald! I meant it." she snapped, her voice cracking.
"Oh, so now you care? Now you're walking out? What — money not good enough anymore? Tired of playing mother?! You think you can run off, Mira?! " Ronald yelled, yanking her toward the stairs.
"There's nothing left to say! I have to, Ronald! For me — and for my son!"
"I don't care about wealth or comfort. I care about being safe! I can't live like this anymore — walking on glass, flinching at every noise, hiding the bruises, pretending everything's fine!"
Her voice trembled, but she stood tall.
"I won't let our son grow up thinking this is what love looks like. I'd rather he think I left, than show him what it means to stay."
Echo watched it all from the edge of the room, heart pounding. He stepped toward them, raising a hand — but it passed through the air like smoke. He stared at his palm.
"I can't... touch them."
A bitter chill ran through his bones. Ronald's face twisted into something cruel. And from beneath his coat, he pulled out a gun.
"No one leaves."
Echo flinched. He ran to Serik, desperate — arms outstretched, trying to cover the boy's eyes. But his hands passed right through.
He was a ghost in this moment — an observer, powerless. Serik didn't see him, couldn't.
"No- wait! Not in front of our chil-"
Bang!
The shot cut through the room like a blade. The second shot rang out. Ronald collapsed next to her. The silence that followed wasn't peace — it was the kind that smothered. The kind that buried.
Serik sat in stillness, staring at the bodies. His toys forgotten. His eyes wide and empty. Something inside him broke — and it never quite healed.
".... Serik..."
But no one could hear him. Blood stained the walls like murals of pain — smeared handprints, jagged streaks, dried blotches. Even the furniture hadn't escaped, splashed and spattered as if the house itself had bled. Flies buzzed in lazy spirals, drawn to old horrors.
The black cat stood at Echo's feet, tail curled around its paws, eyes unblinking.
"Wake up." it said — not with a voice, but with a thought pressed into his mind.
A jolt, Echo gasped. Stumbling back as the nightmare peeled away. He stood before the front door again. The handle had returned, whole and untouched.
He didn't hesitate. He grabbed it, yanked the door open, and bolted into the street — gasping, drenched in sweat.
"You're not heartless... you're just shattered. No one ever picked up your pieces."
He ran. Far from the house. From the memories.
...
Later...
Smoke curled into the evening sky like black ribbons. The house burned, flames gnawing through its walls with ravenous hunger. Firefighters scrambled through the wreckage, hoses spraying, boots stomping ash. Several guards kept civilians back.
"Man, what a pity." Crack said, standing behind the yellow tape, arms crossed. "We won't get any more of Ronald's crème brûlée."
"You're thinking about dessert right now?" Niles grunted. "Seriously?"
Crack shrugged. "Grief hits different when you're hungry. Wait, Isn't the bread boy lives here? Must be him..."
Inside the scorched wreckage, the firefighters regrouped.
"No bodies." one said. "Place was empty when it lit up."
Another glanced at the cracked stove. "Think someone torched it? Or was it just really, really bad cooking?"
The first laughed grimly. "Might be the same thing."
...
Far from the fire, nestled in the branches of a tall tree overlooking the ruin, Serik sat with his knees drawn to his chest. His eyes reflected the flickering flames below.
His voice was quiet and hollow.
"Some houses weren't made to be homes.
They're graves with windows.
Every wall remembers the screams — no matter how fresh the paint. I didn't set the fire to erase what happened.
I set it because I wanted the house to scream too."
"But fire doesn't bring peace.
Only silence.
And silence is loud when you're the one who survived."
He rested his chin on his knees, watching the smoke rise.
"You saw it, didn't you, Echo? I was just born in a cage full of ghosts."
The smoke curled into the air like a mourning veil. Flames hissed and cracked, but from the tree above, the world felt distant — quiet.
Serik sat in the branches, knees hugged to his chest. His eyes gleamed with firelight, but they didn't reflect fear. Only fatigue. Resignation. A loneliness too deep for words.
A soft sound rustled beside him.
The black cat padded along the branch, its yellow eyes calm, its steps light. It sat next to him, its fur brushing against his side.
Serik didn't look surprise.
He reached out and gently ran his fingers through its fur, eyes still fixed on the burning house below.
The cat purred — low, steady, warm and comforting.
"I know." Serik whispered. A soft breeze rustled the leaves.
"I always knew it was you, Mom."
The cat leaned into his hand, nuzzling his palm. The warmth in her yellow eyes wasn't human, but deeper — eternal, forgiving, proud.
Serik smiled — just a little, soft and real.
"You were the best mother I ever had."
The flames below crackled their last. The house would be gone by morning. But here, high in the branches, there was peace.