“The House of Changing Faces”
I don’t remember walking into that house. I never do.
But somehow, I’m always on the second floor, standing beside Friend. The floorboards creak with a memory I can’t name. Outside the warped windows, the sky flickers—not like lightning, but like a broken film reel trying to stitch itself back together.
She’s there again.
An old woman, thin as candle wax, eyes like smoke. Her hands tremble as she pours tea I never drink. Her voice is sweet, almost too sweet, like honey left too long in the sun.
“You’re confused again,” she says. “That’s all right. You always are.”
Friend says nothing. He watches her with a half-smile, like he’s seen this a thousand times.
“I know who I am,” I tell her, already doubting it.
She leans in, and her skin shifts. Wrinkles fade, hair darkens, eyes brighten. She becomes a girl no older than me. Her voice changes too—now melodic, curious, almost innocent.
“You’re not what you think,” she says, touching my hand like a lover. “You left this place long ago. You only come back when you’re ready to remember.”
Then, she shows me.
Visions ripple across the air—like memories painted on smoke. Girls laughing. Streets I don’t recognize. Conversations I swear I’ve had but can’t place. A life unclaimed.
“You lived here before,” she whispers. “You were someone else. We were… something else.”
It’s intoxicating. I feel myself drifting, drawn into the story she weaves like a spell. My body grows heavy. My thoughts slow like melting wax. Am I dreaming inside this dream?
Friend watches quietly, as if waiting for me to forget.
But I ask her something. The question.
Something small, something sharp. Something I’ve always remembered but never spoken aloud. I ask, and she freezes. Her smile falters. Her face flickers.
The girl vanishes. The old woman returns, crying now. Not from sadness, but something else—exposure.
“You shouldn’t remember that,” she whispers. “You were supposed to forget.”
She wails.
The house groans. My vision blurs. Friend steps back, face unreadable. “I can’t stay,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask. “You always stay.”
But he’s already turning, his voice fading behind him. “You’ll understand… next time.”
Then I’m alone.
The woman screams, her voice shaking the beams of the house. Light floods the room. My body trembles—dancing without music, trembling without fear. I feel something waking in me.
Something she wanted to keep buried.
The world collapses like a stage at the end of a play.
And I wake up.
But even now, I’m not sure I left.
I don’t remember walking into that house. I never do.
But somehow, I’m always on the second floor, standing beside Friend. The floorboards creak with a memory I can’t name. Outside the warped windows, the sky flickers—not like lightning, but like a broken film reel trying to stitch itself back together.
She’s there again.
An old woman, thin as candle wax, eyes like smoke. Her hands tremble as she pours tea I never drink. Her voice is sweet, almost too sweet, like honey left too long in the sun.
“You’re confused again,” she says. “That’s all right. You always are.”
Friend says nothing. He watches her with a half-smile, like he’s seen this a thousand times.
“I know who I am,” I tell her, already doubting it.
She leans in, and her skin shifts. Wrinkles fade, hair darkens, eyes brighten. She becomes a girl no older than me. Her voice changes too—now melodic, curious, almost innocent.
“You’re not what you think,” she says, touching my hand like a lover. “You left this place long ago. You only come back when you’re ready to remember.”
Then, she shows me.
Visions ripple across the air—like memories painted on smoke. Girls laughing. Streets I don’t recognize. Conversations I swear I’ve had but can’t place. A life unclaimed.
“You lived here before,” she whispers. “You were someone else. We were… something else.”
It’s intoxicating. I feel myself drifting, drawn into the story she weaves like a spell. My body grows heavy. My thoughts slow like melting wax. Am I dreaming inside this dream?
Friend watches quietly, as if waiting for me to forget.
But I ask her something. The question.
Something small, something sharp. Something I’ve always remembered but never spoken aloud. I ask, and she freezes. Her smile falters. Her face flickers.
The girl vanishes. The old woman returns, crying now. Not from sadness, but something else—exposure.
“You shouldn’t remember that,” she whispers. “You were supposed to forget.”
She wails.
The house groans. My vision blurs. Friend steps back, face unreadable. “I can’t stay,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask. “You always stay.”
But he’s already turning, his voice fading behind him. “You’ll understand… next time.”
Then I’m alone.
The woman screams, her voice shaking the beams of the house. Light floods the room. My body trembles—dancing without music, trembling without fear. I feel something waking in me.
Something she wanted to keep buried.
The world collapses like a stage at the end of a play.
And I wake up.
But even now, I’m not sure I left.
“The House of Changing Faces”
I don’t remember walking into that house. I never do.
But somehow, I’m always on the second floor, standing beside Friend. The floorboards creak with a memory I can’t name. Outside the warped windows, the sky flickers—not like lightning, but like a broken film reel trying to stitch itself back together.
She’s there again.
An old woman, thin as candle wax, eyes like smoke. Her hands tremble as she pours tea I never drink. Her voice is sweet, almost too sweet, like honey left too long in the sun.
“You’re confused again,” she says. “That’s all right. You always are.”
Friend says nothing. He watches her with a half-smile, like he’s seen this a thousand times.
“I know who I am,” I tell her, already doubting it.
She leans in, and her skin shifts. Wrinkles fade, hair darkens, eyes brighten. She becomes a girl no older than me. Her voice changes too—now melodic, curious, almost innocent.
“You’re not what you think,” she says, touching my hand like a lover. “You left this place long ago. You only come back when you’re ready to remember.”
Then, she shows me.
Visions ripple across the air—like memories painted on smoke. Girls laughing. Streets I don’t recognize. Conversations I swear I’ve had but can’t place. A life unclaimed.
“You lived here before,” she whispers. “You were someone else. We were… something else.”
It’s intoxicating. I feel myself drifting, drawn into the story she weaves like a spell. My body grows heavy. My thoughts slow like melting wax. Am I dreaming inside this dream?
Friend watches quietly, as if waiting for me to forget.
But I ask her something. The question.
Something small, something sharp. Something I’ve always remembered but never spoken aloud. I ask, and she freezes. Her smile falters. Her face flickers.
The girl vanishes. The old woman returns, crying now. Not from sadness, but something else—exposure.
“You shouldn’t remember that,” she whispers. “You were supposed to forget.”
She wails.
The house groans. My vision blurs. Friend steps back, face unreadable. “I can’t stay,” he says.
“Why not?” I ask. “You always stay.”
But he’s already turning, his voice fading behind him. “You’ll understand… next time.”
Then I’m alone.
The woman screams, her voice shaking the beams of the house. Light floods the room. My body trembles—dancing without music, trembling without fear. I feel something waking in me.
Something she wanted to keep buried.
The world collapses like a stage at the end of a play.
And I wake up.
But even now, I’m not sure I left.
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