The house is quiet, but not empty. It feels like it is holding its breath. The air is cool and clean. Light slides across the floor and rests on white walls and glass. Everything looks sharp and smooth, like it was polished this morning.

It is too much.

Adrian waits behind me. I can feel him there without looking. He does not rush me. That makes it worse somehow. If he pushed, I could push back. His patience wraps around me like a soft rope.

"Take your time," he says.

I nod, even though my body feels stiff. I step forward.

The door closes behind us with a soft sound. It echoes longer than it should. My chest tightens.

The smell hits me next.

It is faint, but it is everywhere. Clean soap. Warm skin. A soft flower I cannot name. It is my smell. I know that without knowing how I know. My stomach flips.

I lift my hand and press my fingers to my wrist. My pulse is fast.

"This place smells like me," I say.

Adrian answers quietly. "It should."

I take another step. Then another. My shoes make a small sound on the floor. The sound feels wrong in such a big space.

The living room opens in front of me. White couches. Glass tables. A tall wall of windows. Outside, trees stand still like they are watching too.

I turn slowly, like the room might move if I do not watch it.

Photos line the walls.

Frames of all sizes. Black. Silver. White. Some simple. Some heavy and expensive. Every frame holds the same woman.

Me.

I stop breathing.

I walk closer, slow, careful, as the pictures might bite.

There I am, laughing on a beach. My hair is loose, my face open. There I am in a red dress, standing beside Adrian, my hand on his chest. There I am in a kitchen, barefoot, holding a mug, smiling like I am happy to be awake.

I touch the glass of one frame.

My fingers shake.

"That's... me," I whisper.

"Yes," Adrian says.

I do not look at him. I keep looking at her. At me.

She looks comfortable. She looks sure. She looks like she belongs.

I do not know her.

My throat tightens. "I don't remember being this person."

He does not answer right away. When he does, his voice is careful. "You don't have to remember yet."

I pull my hand back from the frame. My skin tingles where it touched the glass.

It feels like the house is watching me. Every photo is an eye. Every smile is a question.

Why don't you know us?

Why did you leave

Why did you forget

I step back. My heel bumps into a table. The sound makes me jump.

"I feel strange," I say. "Like I walked into someone else's life."

Adrian moves a little closer. Not too close. "It was your life."

I shake my head. "It doesn't feel like it."

He nods once. He looks tired. "I know."

I walk past him, deeper into the house. My fingers brush the back of a chair. The fabric is soft. Familiar. I move my hand away quickly.

The kitchen opens to my left. White counters. Clean lines. Everything in its place. A bowl of fruit sits on the island. I stare at it.

"Those," I say, pointing. "I like those?"

Adrian follows my gaze. "You used to. Especially in the morning."

My chest tightens again. Morning. He says it like he has seen many of mine.

I turn away before he can say more.

A hallway stretches ahead. Doors line both sides. I pick one at random and open it.

A study.

Bookshelves fill the walls. Art hangs in neat rows. A desk faces a window. On the desk sits a small plant, green and alive.

I touch one leaf. It bends under my finger and springs back.

"I kept killing plants," I say without thinking.

Adrian's eyebrows lift. "You said that all the time."

I freeze.

"How do I know that?" I ask.

He does not answer. He watches me, his eyes full of something heavy.

I step out of the room.

Another door. A guest room. Clean. Untouched. No photos.

I let out a breath I did not know I was holding.

"Whose room is that?" I ask.

"Ours is upstairs," he says.

Our.

The word lands between us.

I do not answer. I walk to the stairs. Each step is wide and pale. The railing is glass. My reflection moves beside me as I climb.

Halfway up, I stop.

My reflection stops too.

I look at her closely. At me. Pale face. Tired eyes. A small cut near my hairline.

"I don't look like her," I say.

Adrian stands one step below me. "You do."

I shake my head. "She looks... certain."

He says nothing.

The bedroom is at the end of the hall.

The door is open.

I step inside and feel the air change.

It is warmer here. Softer. The smell is stronger.

My smell.

The bed is large. White sheets. Pillows arranged just so. Sunlight spills across the floor. A chair sits by the window with a folded blanket on it.

I take one step in. Then another.

My body reacts before my mind can stop it. My shoulders drop. My breath slows.

I hate that.

"This was mine," I say.

"Yes," Adrian answers.

I walk to the dresser. On top sits a small tray. Jewelry rests there. Rings. Earrings. A thin chain.

I pick up the chain. My fingers know how to hold it. I do not.

"Did I wear this often?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "You touched it when you were thinking."

I put it down too fast.

"How do you know all this?" I ask.

His voice is low. "Because I loved you."

The word hangs in the air.

Loved.

Past tense.

My chest aches.

I turn to the bed and sit on the edge. The mattress dips under my weight as it remembers me. I press my hands into the sheets.

"I feel like I'm being watched," I say.

Adrian looks around. "By what?"

"By her," I say. "By the woman in the photos."

He does not argue.

I lie back slowly. The ceiling is white and smooth. I stare at it.

"I don't recognize myself," I say.

Adrian sits in the chair by the window. He keeps space between us.

"That doesn't mean she wasn't real," he says.

Tears slide from the corners of my eyes. I do not wipe them away.

"What if I never become her again?" I ask.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Then we learn who you are now."

I turn my head and look at him. His face is open. Honest. It scares me.

I sat up again.

"I need to see all of it," I say. "Every room."

He nods. "Okay."

We walk through the rest of the house. A bathroom with clean lines and soft towels. Another room filled with clothes I do not remember buying. Shoes lined up like soldiers. Bags hanging in neat rows.

My stomach twists.

"This is too much," I say.

"I know," he answers.

We return to the living room.

I stop in front of one photo.

It is large. Bigger than the others.

It shows me standing in the garden. My hair is longer. I am wearing blue. My head is tilted back as I laugh. Adrian is behind the camera. I can tell by the way my eyes look.

They are looking at him.

I stare at the photo for a long time.

"She looks happy," I say.

"Yes," he replied quietly.

I press my palm to the glass.

"I don't know her," I whisper.

The house stays silent but the photos keep smiling.

And for the first time, the fear sharpens into something clear and cold.

If I do not know the woman in these pictures, then I do not know the life she lived,

And I do not know what she may have given away before she disappeared.

The house knows me but I do not know myself and that feels like the most dangerous thing of all.

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Chapter 7 A House That Knows Me

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