The ceiling lowered slowly.
The floor rose like something breathing.
Names on the walls began bleeding fresh red, dripping down like tears that never reached the ground.
The creature moved closer.
Its many faces whispered:
"Stay."
"Become memory."
"Be written."
Cold pressure wrapped around Aarohi's wrists, ankles, chest — not hands, but intentions.
She felt her name being carved deeper into the walls of the house, into its thinking structure.
Her lungs burned.
Then she remembered the notebook.
The house doesn't kill you. It learns you.
Learning is not one-sided.
Aarohi stopped struggling.
The creature paused.
She stood still, trembling, but grounded.
"I remember everything," she whispered.
The basement hesitated.
She spoke louder.
"I remember my guilt. I remember fear. I remember silence."
The creature recoiled slightly.
"And I remember love."
The word landed wrong inside the house.
The walls vibrated uncertainly.
She stepped forward instead of back.
Pressed her palms into the shadow-body.
It felt cold and endless, like touching night.
"You survive on regret," she said softly. "But regret ends when truth is spoken."
The faces across the creature twisted in confusion.
Love was not something it had stored.
"I loved my brother," Aarohi cried. "Running didn't erase that. Silence didn't erase that."
The house screamed.
Not metaphorically.
Actually screamed.
A deep sound like roots tearing out of earth.
Cracks raced across the basement.
Names peeled off the walls like burned paper.
Light burst from between stones.
The creature unraveled, its faces dissolving into dust and voices escaping upward like released prayers.
The floor split.
The house began forgetting itself.