Title: The House That Remembers
The house at 112 Merrow Street was not haunted.
At least, not in the way people usually meant when they whispered that word. There were no cold spots. No flickering lights. No hollow footsteps in the night. It was not malevolent.
It simply remembered.
Celia knew this the moment she stepped through the front door with a box of old cookbooks and a hopeful heart. The walls exhaled around her, slow and thick like lungs filled after a long silence. The air had a weight to it—dust and time and something more.
She set the box down and turned in a slow circle. Light filtered through gauzy curtains that hadn't been changed in years. The floorboards creaked softly beneath her, though not in protest. More like recognition.
Celia didn't mind. She'd come looking for that kind of feeling.
