They reached the front door and stood there for a moment. The house looked the same as Fate remembered—same paint, same steps, same small porch light that didn't always work. But now, it felt strangely empty, like a shell waiting to be filled.
Fate lifted their hand and tried the door.
It opened immediately.
No lock.
No resistance.
Just a quiet click and the door swung inward.
Inside, the hallway was dim but clear. Everything was in its place—shoes by the wall, a coat hanging, a small table with keys and mail. It all looked real, but the air felt light, almost hollow.
Fate stepped inside. The Dreamer followed.
"It feels normal," Fate said, "but also… not."
The Dreamer nodded. "Because it's a memory shaped into a space. It looks right, but it isn't fully alive."
They walked farther in. The living room appeared exactly as Fate remembered. The couch. The small TV. The carpet. Even the slight mess Fate used to leave around.
