The rain was gentle but relentless, tapping on the old wooden roof like a lullaby with no warmth. Aria stood before the towering gates of the house she hadn't seen in nearly ten years. It was the same house where laughter once echoed through the halls — where she had taken her first steps, spoken her first words, and last seen her parents alive.
Now, it looked like it hadn't laughed in a long time.
She clutched the straps of her backpack tighter, her fingers cold despite the layers she wore. The cab that had dropped her off was already gone, swallowed by the winding forest road. All she had left now was this house, and the three brothers waiting inside.
The door creaked open before she could knock.
Aidan stood there, tall and stone-faced, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe. He had changed. He was only twenty-seven, but already looked older than he should — like life had been hard on him and he refused to admit it. "You're late," he said, not unkindly, but not warmly either.
"I— The bus was delayed," Aria replied softly.
He stepped aside to let her in. The scent of the house hit her instantly: old wood, dust, and something faintly bitter. It wasn't dirty, just... untouched. Like time had frozen inside.
Caleb was lounging on the couch, arms crossed, eyes half-closed. His long hair was tied loosely, and he barely glanced up. "Hey," he muttered, not moving.
Ethan came rushing down the stairs, his energy a contrast to the other two. "Aria?" His voice cracked slightly. "You've grown..."
She nodded, offering a faint smile. "You too."
He reached out to hug her — but halfway through, his arms fell back to his sides, as if unsure whether he was still allowed to touch her. The silence that followed was awkward, stretching thinly across the room like a thread no one dared to pull.
Aria looked around. The house was still the same, but something in it had changed. Or perhaps it was her brothers who had.
She had barely turned eight when their parents died in the fire. After that, the authorities separated them — Aria was sent to live with relatives far away, while her brothers, already teens, were left to fend for themselves. Years passed. Letters grew fewer. And now here she was, seventeen, back under the same roof.
But nothing felt the same.
That night, the silence deepened.
Aria lay in the room that once belonged to her mother. The wallpaper had faded. The rocking chair in the corner creaked now and then, as if moved by the wind — but the window was shut tight. She tried to sleep, but her body refused.
Then she heard it.
A voice.
No — not a voice. A whisper. A child's whisper.
"Don't leave me..."
She sat up, heart pounding. Her eyes darted around the room. Nothing. She told herself it was just the rain, or a memory playing tricks.
But when she stepped into the hallway, the sound grew louder. Down the corridor, near the attic stairs, she saw something.
Three silhouettes. Small, child-sized. Standing side by side.
She blinked.
They vanished.