The first sound she heard was running water.
Sunlight poured through the window, sharp and golden, catching dust in its beam. The house looked clean, peaceful—almost human again. Almost.
Downstairs, Ethan was a storm of half-awake chaos.
She sat on the edge of her bed, listening to him clatter through drawers, slam doors, curse under his breath. Every sound echoed in the quiet halls, filling the space that still felt too new, too untouched.
Her leg throbbed less today. She flexed it carefully, testing the bandage. It would hold.
Ethan's footsteps thundered up the stairs. He appeared at her door, one shoelace untied, hair a mess, shirt half-buttoned. His eyes were still fogged with sleep.
"You're up," he said, voice rough. "Good. Don't freak out if I'm late tonight, okay? I've got class and then my part-time job."
She frowned. "Ethan."
He looked at her mid-sentence, trying to juggle his backpack strap. "What?"
"About last night."
He froze, only for a second. "Yeah, the scratching thing."
"It wasn't the house," she said quietly. "Something was in it. It was watching us."
He sighed, glancing at the clock. "I know. But if I start believing every weird sound is a demon, I'll never graduate."
"This isn't a joke."
"I'm not joking," he said. "I'm just late."
He slung his bag over his shoulder, half-smiling, half-exhausted. "Look, I'll grab something for dinner on the way back. Don't worry, the house is brand new—it can't be haunted yet."
Before she could argue, he was already halfway down the stairs.
The door shut behind him.
Silence returned.
The house exhaled.
For a while, she just sat there, listening to the distant city noise filtering through the walls. A car horn. A barking dog. Life, moving on outside these walls.
She stood, stretching carefully, and wandered to the window. The garden outside was neat—too neat. The soil looked freshly turned, but no tools lay anywhere nearby.
She moved through the house slowly, getting used to its new layout. Every room was in perfect order. The curtains fell evenly. The clocks ticked together. Even the shadows seemed properly placed.
Downstairs, the couch was still rumpled from where Ethan had slept. She noticed he hadn't folded the blanket, hadn't washed his dishes from breakfast.
"Typical," she muttered softly.
Her voice sounded strange in the air. The house swallowed sound like a sponge.
She found a small cleaning cloth and wiped the counter anyway, more to fill the silence than out of need. The smell of detergent clung to her fingers.
For hours, nothing happened.
She read one of Ethan's old textbooks, its pages full of words she didn't understand—formulas, algorithms, symbols that meant nothing to her. She dozed once, sunlight warming her face.
When she woke, the light had shifted. Afternoon now. The air carried a faint hum, the kind machines make when they're too quiet. She couldn't tell if it came from the walls or her own head.
She walked the halls again. Her limp was softer now. Each step felt like testing ground that might disappear beneath her.
At one point, she stopped in front of the living room wall—the same wall from last night. It was flawless. Smooth white paint. No marks. No sound.
She touched it.
Cool to the touch. Still.
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the surface, distorted by sunlight. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw a second shape behind her. She blinked, and it was gone.
Evening crept in quietly. The sunlight faded to amber, then gray. She boiled water for tea, the kettle's hiss sounding too loud in the empty kitchen.
It struck her then how different the house felt with Ethan gone. When he was here, his restless energy—his voice, his clumsy presence—kept the air alive. Without him, the quiet thickened into something else. Not peace. Not comfort. Something that waited.
She tried to ignore it. Sat by the window with her tea, watching the light dim. The smell of curry still lingered faintly in the air.
Her thoughts drifted back to the night before: the wall breathing under her hand, the whisper that froze her bones. The way Ethan had looked so calm, so unconcerned.
Was he truly blind to it? Or just pretending not to see?
She wondered what it was like for him—to live surrounded by something only he could perceive. Maybe that's why he hid behind humor. Maybe laughter was armor.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. The tea had gone cold.
The house grew darker.
The clocks ticked softly. The refrigerator hummed. The day ended the way it had begun—still and too perfect.
She walked to the front door, checking the lock out of habit. When she touched the handle, it was warm. Warmer than it should be. She pulled her hand back quickly.
The wind outside howled once, sudden and sharp. Then nothing.
The street beyond the window was empty. Even the stray dog she'd seen earlier was gone.
She shut the curtains.
It was fully dark now. She moved to the couch, sitting where Ethan usually did, her sword laid across her lap. She didn't turn on the lights.
The quiet pressed harder with the night.
Every sound seemed to echo forever—the creak of wood, her own breathing. She could hear the faint, rhythmic tick of the clock upstairs.
She told herself she wasn't afraid. Just cautious. Just aware.
The floor beneath her feet vibrated faintly, like something shifting deep below the foundation. She waited. It stopped.
"Just the train line," she whispered to no one. But she knew there wasn't one nearby.
The air in the living room thickened, carrying the faint scent of damp soil again. She closed her eyes, steadying her breath.
Don't give it fear, she told herself. Fear feeds it.
She didn't notice when the door handle began to turn.
The first sound she caught was the soft click of the lock sliding open.
Her eyes snapped up.
Footsteps entered the hall—slow, deliberate. The same heavy tread she'd heard last night.
Her hand flew to the sword, drawing it silently. Her heart pounded so loud she thought it would give her away.
The footsteps stopped. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
She rose from the couch, blade raised. The figure moved closer—she could see the faint outline through the dim light spilling under the hallway door.
Her pulse spiked.
Not again. Not tonight.
The doorknob turned. The hinges moaned softly.
She stepped back, ready to strike.
The door opened.
Light from the hallway cut across the floor, and Ethan's voice broke the silence.
"Hey—whoa! Easy with the sword, it's just me!"
Her breath caught.
He stood there in the doorway, hair messy from the wind, part-time uniform wrinkled, holding a takeaway bag. "You trying to give me a heart attack?"
For a moment she couldn't answer. The adrenaline drained too fast, leaving her shaking.
He blinked at her. "You okay?"
She exhaled slowly, lowering the blade. "You shouldn't sneak in like that."
He gave a half-smile. "Door was unlocked."
Her eyes flicked to the handle. It gleamed faintly—cool, metal, untouched.
She hadn't unlocked it.
Ethan walked past her into the living room, oblivious, setting the food on the table. "See? Told you the house was fine."
She didn't reply.
Outside, beyond the curtained window, something moved across the glass—a faint handprint dragging downward before vanishing.