"A Memory Built of Wood and Dust"

The first time I saw it, I thought I had wandered into a dream. It was late—the kind of late when the world feels more like a memory than a place. I had been aimlessly drifting through a fog so thick it felt alive when I came upon the old house. The door stood ajar, its edges warped and splintered by time, and against my better judgment, I crossed the threshold.

The room greeted me like an unwelcome guest. The walls, a glistening teal, shimmered faintly with moisture, their texture reminiscent of rotting bark. It was the color of decay, yet strangely animate—its surface seemed to pulse beneath the flickering light of a single, grime-caked lamp. The dim glow pooled weakly on the frayed edges of a faded rug, its intricate patterns barely discernible beneath layers of filth and time.

I hadn’t intended to linger, but something in the space refused to let me go. It was the amber light from the window, I think, that held me captive. The panes glowed like molten glass, casting a warmth the room itself denied. Beyond them, there was only darkness—an endless void that devoured the horizon.

The furniture sagged under the weight of years, as if exhausted by the burden of endless waiting. A couch slumped in the corner, its cushions cratered as though someone had sat there for an eternity and never risen. The fireplace yawned like a blackened maw, cold and hollow, its mantel adorned with objects too strange to touch. Above it, books lined a crooked shelf—their titles faded, their spines brittle with disuse.

As I stepped further in, the air thickened, enveloping me in a stifling embrace. I rested my hand on the back of a wooden chair near the table—its surface rough, its warmth unsettling, as if someone had just left it moments before. Yet a layer of undisturbed dust betrayed the truth.

I should have turned back. But there was something eerily familiar about the room. Not comforting, like the echo of a childhood home, but haunting—like the remnants of a nightmare too vivid to forget. I stared at the glowing window, half-expecting a figure to appear, but nothing moved.

Then I heard it—a soft creak, subtle as a breath. It came from the corner where shadows gathered thickest. My heart surged. I stepped back, but the room held me fast. I could feel its pull—its yearning to be noticed, remembered.

“You’ve been here before,” a voice whispered, barely more than a rustle of wind through dry leaves.

I turned, but saw no one. Only the room.

And then I understood. The house wasn’t haunted—I was. The room was a mirror, a vessel holding everything I had tried to forget: sorrow, loss, guilt. It had always been there, festering in silence, waiting to be acknowledged.

I don’t know how long I remained. The world outside receded, replaced by the amber glow and the rhythmic creak of the house’s breath.

When I finally stepped back into the night, the fog had lifted. But the room stayed with me, etched into my memory like a scar that would never fade.

Somewhere, it still waits—darker now, older. Waiting for me to return.