She found the house by accident.
An old manor swallowed by ivy, hidden behind the trees at the edge of the town she was trying to forget. The listing was old, unloved — dirt cheap. The real estate agent wouldn’t step past the gate.
"People say it's… persistent," he said.
She bought it anyway.
The house whispered.
At first, just creaks and sighs. But soon… names. Her name. At night. In a voice low and aching.
And always from the room at the end of the hall.
It was locked when she moved in. The key, rusted and warm, appeared on her pillow one morning like a gift.
She opened it.
Inside was dust and velvet. An old mirror. A portrait of a man with hollow eyes and a half-smile that made her stomach twist. She should have closed the door.
Instead, she stayed.
At night, she started dreaming of him. His hands cold, but gentle. His voice in her ear — “You found me.” Each morning she woke with bruises in the shape of fingertips. Her lips tingled like they'd been kissed.
She stopped leaving the house.
The town forgot her name.
One day, she found herself painting. Her hands moved like they remembered something she didn’t. She painted his face. Again and again.
“You love me,” he said, from behind the mirror. “You always did.”
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered.
“You did once.”
And she did. She remembered — the fire. The pact. The promise. A love so desperate it bled into the walls.
He’d waited.
She moved into the room at the end.
They say the house is empty again now. That the woman disappeared. But some nights, if you walk past the gate, you’ll hear two voices — soft, laughing, whispering things you can’t quite make out.
And if you stand too long, you’ll feel it.
A pull.
The house… remembering your name.