The house had always told me where I couldn't go.
Doors that stayed shut.
Rooms that stayed dark.
Places meant for adults, not boys with broken memories.
But that day, the basement door was open.
Just a crack.
Not wide enough to see in.
But enough to feel it breathing.
Lucas stood at the top of the stairs.
Looking down.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
I stood behind him.
Neither of us touched the doorknob.
It had never needed a key.
Only fear.
"Should we go?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
But he started walking.
One step at a time.
I followed.
Because I always do.
Because the quiet in the basement wasn't empty.
It was heavy.
Like something had been waiting.
The light switch didn't work.
It never did.
But my eyes adjusted quickly.
Shadows became shelves.
Dust became shapes.
And in the corner—
A rocking chair.
Moving.
Alone.
I wanted to leave.
But my feet stayed.
Lucas stood near the chair.
He wasn't looking at it.
He was looking at me.
"You remember this place," he said.
Not a question.
A fact.
I didn't reply.
I just walked to the far wall.
Dragged my hand across it.
Felt the scratches there.
Felt my name carved once.
Then crossed out.
Then carved again, lower.
With a different date.
I started shaking.
Lucas didn't stop me.
Didn't comfort me.
Just let it happen.
Because that's what this place was.
Not a cellar.
Not a room.
But a ledger.
A place where pain was recorded.
Where names were erased and rewritten.
"You didn't cry here," he said.
"No," I whispered.
"I learned not to."
And that's when I heard it.
Not Lucas.
Not the wind.
But her.
Just a breath.
Just a hum.
Somewhere beneath the floorboards.
Like she'd never really left.
Like she was still watching.
I ran up the stairs without looking back.
Lucas didn't follow.
When I reached the hallway, the door closed behind me.
Softly.
No slam.
No lock.
Just the house reminding me:
Some doors open when you're ready.
Some… when it's too late.