The house waited for me. Silent. Patient.
The air inside was thick with the scent of ash and something faintly sweet, like old flowers left too long in water. Dust drifted through the stillness, catching the weak light filtering through the cracked windows.
I took a step inside, my heartbeat echoing too loud. The floorboards groaned beneath me, each creak a reminder of footsteps long gone. The walls seemed to pulse faintly, as though the house itself was breathing.
"Emma?" I called out, though part of me didn't expect an answer.
But I got one.
Soft. Distant. The way a memory sounds when it's trying to claw its way back to the surface.
"I knew you'd come."
Her voice.
Gentle. Familiar.
Alive.
My throat tightened. "Emma?"
She appeared at the end of the hall, half-shadow, half-light. Her hair shimmered the color of embers, her eyes the soft gray I remembered. She wore the red gloves—the same ones from that night—and the sight of them made my stomach twist.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
I took a step toward her. "I had to come. I needed to see you."
Her expression softened, sadness flickering in her smile. "You've been seeing me for a long time, Nathan. That's the problem."
We stood there, silence stretching between us. Then the house began to murmur—wind moving through broken glass, echoes crawling up from the floorboards.
I could feel the weight of the book in my coat pocket, its pages whispering like dry leaves.
"I read what it said," I told her. "About the mind filling the gaps. About ghosts made of guilt."
Emma tilted her head. "Do you believe that's what I am?"
"I don't know what I believe anymore."
"You do," she said quietly. "You just don't want to."
The hallway shifted around us—suddenly brighter, the air heavy with heat. I blinked, and the world was no longer gray and still.
I was there.
That night.
The flames roared from the kitchen, eating through the walls, devouring everything. Smoke coiled up the stairs, black and suffocating. I could hear her screaming my name.
I ran for her. I remember that part vividly.
The doorknob burned my hand. The air was alive with sparks.
But the door wouldn't open.
No matter how hard I pushed, it wouldn't move.
And she was on the other side.
Her voice, her cries—then the sound stopped.
The house cracked, the ceiling fell, and all I could do was watch as the fire consumed the world I loved.
I remember falling to my knees, choking on smoke, whispering her name over and over until my voice broke.
Then—darkness.
That's how I remembered it.
That's the truth I built my grief on.
When I came to, the fire was gone, replaced by the cold stillness of the hall again. Emma stood where the flames had been, untouched.
"That's not what happened," she said softly.
I stared at her. "I saw it."
Her eyes glistened. "You saw what your mind needed to see."
I shook my head, trembling. "Don't—don't do that. Don't tell me what I remember isn't real."
"You weren't in the house when it burned," she whispered. "You left. You went to get help. You ran back too late, and by then—"
Her voice caught, and for a moment, her image flickered, like candlelight.
"By then it was already over," she said. "You couldn't have saved me."
"I should've!" I shouted, the words scraping my throat raw. "I shouldn't have left you!"
She stepped closer, her hand brushing my cheek—warm, solid, impossibly real. "You couldn't have known, Nathan. It wasn't your fault."
"It was," I said, tears burning hot against my skin. "I should've stayed."
"You'd have died too."
"Then maybe I should've."
Her face broke, pain etched into every line. "You think that's what I wanted? For you to die with me?"
I couldn't speak. The truth—hers, mine, the fire—blurred together until I couldn't tell which one burned worse.
The house began to change again. The walls shimmered with light and shadow, flashes of the fire bleeding through—the moment caught between what was real and what I'd created.
"You can't keep doing this," she whispered. "You can't keep me here."
"I don't want to lose you again."
"You already did."
Her words cut like glass, but her eyes were full of love. "Nathan… I'm not haunting you. You're haunting me. You built this—this place, this version of me—to hold onto what's already gone."
"I don't believe you," I said, voice cracking. "You're here. I can touch you."
"You can't," she said gently, taking my hands in hers. "You're touching the memory of me."
The warmth of her skin faded, the shape of her fingers blurring like smoke.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "Don't. Please don't do this."
"I need you to live," she said. "I need you to forgive yourself."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I can't!"
The flames returned in an instant, swallowing the walls around us. The room burned again—the same way it always did. I could see her framed by fire, hair blazing like a halo, her red gloves catching the light as she reached for me.
"Let me go," she whispered.
"I can't," I said, tears streaming down my face. "I can't bear the thought of it."
She smiled through the smoke—sad, loving, infinite.
"Then you'll never wake up."
The fire roared louder, the floor splitting beneath my feet. The world tilted, broke apart, filled with the sound of my name echoing over and over.
And just before everything went white, I heard her voice one last time—faint, almost gone:
"You didn't kill me, Nathan. You only forgot how to live."
When I opened my eyes, the house was ash. The red glove lay beside me, untouched by flame.
I picked it up, held it to my chest, and whispered her name until it didn't hurt anymore.
But even then, even in the stillness, I swore I heard her humming—just beyond reach.
And I knew:
She hadn't left.
Not yet.
Not until I did.