The mind had built a house.
Not a metaphor.
An actual house.
It stood in a permanent twilight field.
The sky was the colour of old bruises.
There were no roads leading in or out, only a narrow dirt path that appeared beneath her feet the moment she decided to walk and disappeared the moment she stopped.
Inside the house were rooms she recognised, but wrong.
Her childhood bedroom had six windows instead of two and none of them showed the same season.
The kitchen smelled of burnt milk and the calendar on the wall was stuck on 14 February 2019—the day her father left without saying goodbye or hello, just left.
Every corridor ended in a mirror.
Every mirror showed a slightly different Aashi: one smiling too wide, one crying without tears, one sitting quietly with perfect posture and empty hands, one screaming so hard her throat had turned to charcoal.
She learned she could choose which version to step into.
Most days she chose the quiet one with empty hands.
It required the least energy.