I shouldn’t have come back. The road ended three miles back, but I kept walking, drawn by the letter I found tucked in my sister’s old journal—written in my handwriting, dated next week. The house looms ahead, unchanged since childhood: two stories of rotting wood, windows like sunken eyes, the porch swing swaying without wind.

I remember Mom saying no one ever screamed here. Not because they weren’t afraid—but because the house swallowed every sound the moment it left the throat. When Lily disappeared, there were no footprints, no signs of struggle. Just her favorite ribbon on the kitchen table and a single word written in grease on the microwave: Listen.

Now I’m standing in the foyer, dust undisturbed for years—except for the fresh footprints leading upstairs… mine, but facing the wrong direction. Behind me, the front door clicks shut. No handle on the inside.

A whisper brushes my ear—Lily’s voice, but wrong, stretched thin: 'You finally heard me.'

Then silence again. Heavier than before.