The silence used to be background noise. Now it pressed against Elia's skin like humidity, soaking through her jacket and chilling her bones.
She stood at the edge of the sidewalk, one foot already off the curb, eyes locked on the door across the street.
It hadn't moved. Just a crack.But it might as well have been a mouth whispering her name.
The porch light above it flickered. Once. Twice. Then held steady like it was waiting for her.
This place didn't have weather. It didn't have birds. But tonight, it had a door that was open.
Elia took her first step.
The street under her shoes felt too soft, like old fabric stretched too thin. She didn't remember walking across. Just the feeling that the house was closer than it had any right to be.
The porch steps creaked as she climbed them, even though they always looked brand-new. The sound felt rehearsed, like the house wanted her to hear it.
Her fingers hovered over the knob.
It was metal. Cold. Too cold for a night with no wind.
She didn't want to open it.But she didn't want to leave it closed either.
So she pushed.
The door swung open soundlessly, the air inside rushing out like something had been holding its breath.
Her shoes crossed the threshold on instinct.
The house swallowed her.
No wind.
No movement.
No welcome.
Just the slow ache of memories that hadn't surfaced in years.
The living room looked exactly as she remembered , and completely wrong at the same time. The furniture was untouched. The rug was still crooked. The light switch still didn't work. And yet… something was missing.
No dust.
No scent.
No time.
The air felt too clean. Too empty.
She walked forward, her breath shallow. Every step creaked beneath her, but the sound didn't echo. It sank like a whisper beneath the floorboards.
And then she saw it.
On the coffee table.
Her diary.
Torn around the edges. Faded blue cover. A sticker peeling off the corner . the same one she'd placed there when she was twelve.
She hadn't seen it since that year.The year everything stopped making sense.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
It wasn't dusty.
It wasn't cold.
It was waiting.
The top page was open. Ink still fresh.
She blinked once.
Her own handwriting stared back.
You left her.She's still upstairs.Why didn't you come back?
Her throat closed.
That wasn't possible.
That wasn't hers.At least… not from then.
She flipped the next page.
Blank.
The next one. Also blank.
Then her name.
Written in jagged strokes across the paper, as if someone had carved it in ink:
ELIA.
The pen next to the diary rolled.No breeze. No movement. Just the sound of it clicking off the edge and landing gently on the floor.
She stepped back, heart pounding.
Then came the scream.
Not from outside.
From upstairs.
Short. Sudden. Too human to be imagined.
She froze.
Not because it was the same scream.
But because this time, it said something.
It said, "Help me."
And it said it with her voice.