Chapter 01 – The Breathing Walls
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The taxi pulled away, leaving behind only the hush of the wind and the distant rustle of dry leaves. Eva Morgan stood still on the sidewalk, suitcase beside her, gazing at the modest Victorian house before her. It wasn't large. It wasn't grand. It was… quiet. Too quiet.
Number 9.
The paint on the gate was chipped. A brass knocker shaped like a lion's head had gone dull with time. Ivy crawled like veins across the walls, wrapping them in shadows that danced with the breeze.
She exhaled. The house exhaled back. Or maybe it was just the trees.
Eva adjusted her scarf and stepped through the squeaky gate. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes, and the air smelled of dust and dried roses. For a moment, she thought she heard a soft hum—low and steady, like the sound of breath behind the walls.
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Twenty minutes earlier.
The woman's name was Lana.
She had met Eva at the key drop.
Lana had striking silver hair and a calm voice that felt rehearsed. She handed over the brass key, engraved with the number 9, and said only one thing before disappearing down the street:
"Some doors open by will. Others… by memory."
Eva had blinked. When she looked back, Lana was gone. No footsteps. No car.
She had shrugged it off as poetic nonsense. Now, standing at the door, her hand on that same key, it didn't feel poetic. It felt… deliberate.
The lock turned with a click that echoed inside her bones. The door swung open.
Silence greeted her.
The hallway was narrow, draped in pale wallpaper with faded floral patterns. There were no family portraits, no coat rack, no dust—just that same low hum… like the house itself was breathing.
She stepped inside.
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The first room on the right was the living room. A velvet armchair stood by the fireplace, and a bookshelf tilted slightly to one side. A framed photograph hung on the wall—but the figures were blurred, as if the glass had trapped a forgotten moment.
Eva sat down gently. The cushion sighed under her weight. She closed her eyes.
She didn't remember applying for this house. She didn't remember why she'd chosen it. She only remembered waking up three weeks ago with a name in her inbox: "House No. 9."
The silence wasn't hostile. But it wasn't welcoming either. It was expectant.
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She explored the rest of the ground floor. The kitchen had mint-colored cabinets, clean countertops, and a window with lace curtains. On the fridge was a single magnet:
🗝️ Some memories are keys in disguise.
She stared at it longer than she should have. She couldn't recall who Lana really was—or why that sentence felt familiar.
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Upstairs, the bedroom overlooked the garden. The bed was made. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something else… something faintly metallic.
As Eva unpacked, her mind wandered. She remembered Lyla—her childhood friend. Or maybe not childhood. Maybe she was imaginary. Lyla used to whisper stories during storms. Eva hadn't thought of her in years.
A voice stirred in her head:
"Do you think the house remembers us too?"
She froze. That wasn't her thought.
It was Lyla's voice. But Lyla was gone.
Wasn't she?
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That night, Eva dreamed of the house—not as it was now, but as it must have been decades ago.
She saw it through someone else's eyes:
Rain against the windows. A piano playing downstairs. A woman in a red dress whispering to the walls.
She held a letter. She cried as she burned it.
The house watched her.
And then—darkness.
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Eva woke up gasping. Her hand was gripping the bedsheet tightly. The air in the room was warm and cold at once, like breath just behind her neck.
She turned on the lamp.
Nothing.
But the hum was still there.
Softer now. Like the house was listening.
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She got out of bed and walked toward the window. The garden was empty. The ivy on the outer wall swayed gently.
And then—just faintly—she saw her reflection in the glass… blink.
Except she hadn't blinked.
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Eva stepped back, heart pounding.
It's just the dream.
That's what she told herself.
But her reflection stood still.
And smiled.