It started with a smell.
Something faint.
Like dust and wood and time.
I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, when I smelled it.
Attic air.
I sat up.
There was no attic here.
But the scent lingered.
And something inside me shifted.
That night, I dreamed again.
But it wasn't the happy attic.
It was the basement.
Empty.
The cages were gone.
The mirror was shattered.
But on the floor… there was a book.
My notebook.
The one Mama gave me.
I walked toward it in the dream.
Page after page flipped open on their own.
Drawings of my life.
Lucas's life.
But then the pages stopped.
On one final line:
"You forgot me."
I woke up shaking.
And I knew.
I had to go back.
I didn't tell anyone.
Not my mother.
Not the therapist.
Not the school counselor.
Because they wouldn't understand.
They'd say, "You're safe now."
But safety isn't the same as closure.
So that weekend, I snuck out.
Took the bus.
Three stops.
Then walked.
It was cloudy. Cold.
Like the sky knew where I was going.
When I reached the edge of the woods, my chest tightened.
The path was overgrown.
The mailbox rusted.
The paint peeled from the door.
But the house was still there.
Like it had been waiting.
I didn't knock.
I walked straight in.
The door creaked like it remembered me.
The hallway was dark.
Dust danced in the air like ashes.
The mirror was gone.
So was the picture frame.
But the air… the air was the same.
That same weight.
Like a whisper trapped in a jar.
I climbed the stairs.
Every step familiar.
The attic hatch was closed.
But it gave way easily when I pushed.
The attic was untouched.
Like I'd never left.
My drawings still lined the walls.
The mattress.
The broken flashlight.
Mr. Nibbles.
Still there.
Still smiling.
I knelt beside him.
Picked him up.
Hugged him.
He smelled like home.
My real home.
The one I didn't ask for — but survived in.
And then I saw it.
The notebook.
Half-buried under the pillow.
I opened it.
And gasped.
There were new pages.
Pages I didn't write.
Drawings of me.
Standing outside the house.
Sitting on a school bench.
Sleeping in a bed with dinosaur sheets.
Watching.
Always watching.
At the bottom of the last page, in shaky handwriting:
"You might leave me. But I'll never leave you."
The floor creaked behind me.
I turned around.
No one.
Just shadows.
And the wind.
I held the notebook close.
Climbed down.
And left the house.
But not alone.
Because something followed.
Not in steps.
But in memory.
In breath.
In name.
Lucas never really died.
He just stayed behind.
In that house.
Watching.