She grew up in that house—utterly alone.
The walls knew her every breath, the floorboards remembered her footsteps, and the windows… the windows were her only glimpse of the life she wasn’t allowed to touch. The house raised her, yes—but it also caged her. It loved her in the way a thing with no heart can love: possessively, completely, and without mercy.
She pressed her hands against the glass, watching the world pass her by—people laughing, living, leaving. She ached for connection, ached to be seen, to be known. The loneliness was sharp, feral. It grew louder with every year.
And so did her yearning to leave.
But the house felt her pulling away. It tightened its grip. It knew—deep down in its aching beams and jealous foundation—that if she ever stepped beyond its threshold, she’d never return. So it whispered. It clung. It threatened and pleaded, desperate to keep her, no matter the cost.
Because the house didn’t just shelter her.
It needed her.
And it was willing to become a prison to keep what it could never truly possess.
