Jason stepped into the house.
The air inside was cold and still. It smelled like dust, wood, and something old—something forgotten.
The floor creaked under his feet. He saw furniture covered with white sheets. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like thin curtains. A broken chandelier dangled above his head.
He slowly walked through the hallway. The walls were covered in dark wallpaper with faded red flowers. Some parts were torn, showing the wooden wall underneath.
There was a large room to the left. Jason stepped in.
It looked like a living room. A fireplace stood at one end. A long couch sat in the middle, covered in dust. There was an old painting on the wall above the fireplace.
Jason moved closer to look.
It was a family portrait—four people. A man in a black coat. A woman in a green dress holding a baby. And a boy, standing in front of them.
Jason's eyes widened.
The boy in the painting looked exactly like him.
Same brown hair. Same eyes. Even the same small scar near the eyebrow.
Jason stepped back, confused. His heart pounded.
"That can't be me," he whispered. "That's impossible."
He turned around quickly and nearly dropped his sketchbook.
In the corner of the room stood an old rocking chair.
And it was moving.
Back... and forth.
Back... and forth.
But no one was sitting in it.
Jason backed out of the room and into the hallway.
A door at the end slowly creaked open on its own.
Something whispered from inside.
"Jason…"