The air outside the cottage felt thick—like the sky itself was holding its breath. The four of them stood motionless, feet planted on the cold concrete path leading to the only house with a gate, the only one with a mailbox, the only one that dared to be different.
A hollow breeze rolled past them, barely disturbing the dead silence around. Nathan felt a shiver crawl up his back. Even the grass seemed frozen in place, untouched and strangely artificial, like a stage carefully constructed for something waiting to begin.
They were inside the gates now. No turning back. No excuses left.
Nathan slid the folded rulebook back into the deep pocket of his jacket. It crackled faintly as if it didn't want to be ignored. He exhaled, a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, and turned toward Ivy, his eyes steady but filled with unease.
"So we go inside this house…?" His voice was soft, yet heavy. Like someone speaking in a church—or a graveyard.
Ivy didn't answer right away. She looked around them first, letting her gaze drift from the cracked edges of the white fence to the glow of the windows, where warm yellow light shone like a beacon. But something about it felt off—too warm. Too perfect.
She turned to Alice.
The blonde girl stood just behind Ivy, close enough to be protected, far enough to be unnoticed. Her hands were balled into small fists at her sides, and her posture was drawn in tight—shoulders slightly hunched, legs close together, eyes wide and uncertain. She wasn't speaking, but her body said enough.
Alice was scared.
Her eyes found Ivy's, like a child silently asking a parent if everything was going to be okay. There was no demand in her gaze—just fragile dependence.
Harper stood to Nathan's right, arms crossed, her stance rigid. She looked ahead, chin up, not speaking. Her presence was less about confidence and more about tension, like a taut wire stretched too far. Her brow twitched as if fighting to stay blank. No jokes. No sarcasm. Not here.
Ivy took a moment longer, calculating, absorbing, balancing the fear in the group like an emotional scale in her mind.
Then she looked back at Nathan, her voice calm and composed—measured like a surgeon's hand before the first incision.
"I think yes."
"We should explore this one first."
"This is the one that stands out from the rest."
The moment she spoke, it was as if the house itself heard her.
The creak of wood sounded somewhere—soft, distant, but not from them. Maybe a floorboard shifting. Maybe something else. Nathan's jaw tightened, and Harper visibly flinched, pretending she hadn't.
Alice took a step closer to Ivy.
"O-Okay… let's… stay close, right?" she whispered. Her voice was sweet, soft, but riddled with nerves. She tried to smile, but it came out more like a tremble. "Just don't leave me behind…"
"We won't," Ivy replied, briefly placing a hand on her shoulder. Then she nodded to Nathan.
With a deep breath, Nathan reached forward and touched the doorknob. It was cold. Too cold for a door attached to a house radiating warmth.
He hesitated.
He knew they were on the brink of something. That what waited on the other side wasn't just part of a phase—it was a design. Something intentional. Something watching.
He looked back one last time.
At Ivy, who looked ready to bear it all.
At Harper, who would probably fight without a second thought.
At Alice, whose smile was breaking.
Then, without a word, he turned the knob.
And the door creaked open.
As Nathan turned the knob and pushed the door inward, a soft creak echoed into the void behind him—long and drawn-out, like a whisper escaping into the house.
The scent hit him first.
It wasn't musty or stale. Quite the opposite. A warm, earthy aroma gently rolled into his senses—the subtle fragrance of lavender and old wood mixed with something faintly sweet, like baked apples or cinnamon, lingering in the background. It was the kind of smell one might expect from a grandmother's cottage hidden deep in the countryside.
The moment he stepped inside, a curious sensation washed over him.
His muscles—tight, rigid, strained from the tension of uncertainty—suddenly loosened. A small part of him, buried deep beneath the layers of fear and hyperawareness, felt… at ease. Not safe, no. But relaxed, like the house itself was inviting him in. Welcoming him. Almost grateful to be seen again.
But the fear didn't leave. It merely retreated behind a veil of illusion. He knew better. Comfort was just the first act in whatever performance this place was designed to stage.
He stood in the entryway, eyes scanning every inch of the room before committing to a single step.
The house's interior resembled an old rural home—nostalgic in a way that didn't belong to any of them. Wooden walls with faint grooves, slightly faded yet polished to a soft sheen. The planks beneath his feet creaked gently with each step, not in protest, but like a whisper: someone is walking here again.
In front of him opened what appeared to be the main hall—a small living room space, cozy but worn by time. The furniture was old-fashioned but well-kept, clearly taken care of. A red couch sat in the center of the space, plush and inviting, its velvet-like cushions puffed up perfectly, as if they'd just been fluffed. The fabric glistened faintly in the light, as if brushed with care only moments ago.
In front of the couch stood a long rectangular wooden table, dark oak, with a lacquer finish that shimmered under the gentle light filtering in from the curtained window. Four chairs surrounded the table—two on each side—each one angled slightly inward, as if anticipating company. The placement was precise. Lived-in, but not disturbed. Too perfect.
Nathan's gaze lingered.
A family of four once lived here, he thought. The symmetry of the chairs, the warmth of the light, the stillness in the air—it was like stepping into a frozen memory, preserved for someone else.
Behind him, the soft sound of footsteps followed—light, hesitant. Ivy stepped in next, eyes sharp and calculating, already scanning the details, the corners, the edges. Harper followed, her arms no longer crossed, but fingers slightly twitching as she took in the room. Last was Alice, her steps barely audible, her expression wide-eyed and curious, almost childlike.
Together, they stood in a line, their eyes trailing over the surroundings.
The hall was small but deliberately organized. At the far end, a narrow passage led into another room on the left. They couldn't see inside—just the shadowed edge of a doorway, a strip of darker wood and the faint outline of what might be a cabinet or shelf.
Kitchen? Bedroom? Nathan thought, but didn't voice it.
Each detail in the room screamed of a once-lived life. Small ceramic vases sat neatly on the window sills, each holding dried sprigs of lavender or chamomile, long since faded in color but still maintaining an eerie kind of grace. A lantern hung from a hook beside the largest window, its glass panels tinted with amber hues, casting soft patterns onto the wall.
Near the table, a modest shelf held a stack of wooden plates, carefully arranged. Glass cups sat beside them, polished and untouched. A metal tray still held two old spoons, parallel to each other—no dust, no signs of decay. It was as if someone had stepped out only minutes ago, expecting to return for dinner.
The house didn't feel abandoned.
It felt paused.
Nathan moved further in, the others trailing behind him. Every breath they took seemed louder in this space. Every step echoed with a softness that felt rehearsed.
As they reached the center of the room, Harper leaned close to Alice, whispering something inaudible, her tension softened only by the proximity of the girl beside her. Alice nodded, not speaking. Her arms stayed close to her sides, fingers occasionally clenching as she took in the vases, the cushions, the way the light kissed the surface of the floorboards.
It was beautiful, yes.
But it was the kind of beauty that asked you to stay.
And they all knew better than to trust that kind of invitation.
"This looks really pretty, I won't lie," Alice said softly, her voice almost too delicate for the stillness that blanketed the room. A small, fragile smile tugged at her lips as her eyes wandered across the room once more—over the red velvet couch, the untouched plates and cups, the lantern that swayed gently despite the absence of wind.
There was something oddly familiar about the house. Something that stirred feelings they couldn't name, memories they couldn't quite place. None of them had ever been here before. Not really. Yet it felt as though they had.
A wave of nostalgia swept over them all, slow and suffocating in its warmth.
It wasn't a sharp, painful nostalgia—it was soft. Like the memory of a perfect moment from childhood, filtered through time. Like a dream of a summer afternoon that never actually happened, but you still miss it. It reminded them of breezy holidays at a family cottage. Of waking up to sunlight and the distant sound of waves, the warm scent of pancakes drifting through the hall. Of a mother calling out gently from the kitchen, "Your favorite snack is ready!" A father's proud voice behind a newspaper, "You've done well at school, I'm proud of you." And siblings laughing in another room, the kind of chaotic joy that made a place feel alive.
For a moment, it felt like they were inside that memory.
Alice walked slowly across the hall, one hand gliding along the wooden walls. She tilted her head, fingertips brushing over the surface as if trying to confirm the house was real—solid and tangible, not just a fleeting trick of the mind.
"It's so smooth," she murmured, her voice almost lost to the hum of silence that filled the house.
Harper stepped up beside her, arms still folded loosely but her expression had softened. Her sharpness dulled by that same bittersweet comfort.
"It sucks that places like this have to exist in a completely different realm like this, aren't I right?" she said, her voice quiet but honest.
Alice gave her a slow nod, her smile returning, this time a little sadder.
Nathan and Ivy stood side by side now, farther into the room. Both of them silent, both of them feeling that tug of lost innocence, of homes that may never have truly existed—but felt real enough in that moment. Ivy's brows were furrowed in thought, her gaze fixed on the far hallway door. Nathan exhaled quietly, the weight on his shoulders not forgotten but momentarily softened.
They stood there—four strangers brought together by a cruel world—bound not by fate, but by this moment of quiet understanding. The house wasn't threatening them. Not yet. It was showing them what they missed. What they'd never truly had. What they'd never return to.
And just as that calm reached its peak—just as the air grew too still to trust—it happened.
Thump.
A single footstep.
From the room ahead, the one half-shrouded in shadow. The one they thought was a kitchen. Or a bedroom.
Another step.
And another.
Slow. Deliberate. Not rushed. The kind of footsteps you'd expect in a place where time didn't matter.
The nostalgia drained from the air, slowly pulled out like breath from lungs. The golden warmth turned brittle. The tension returned like a ripple under the floorboards.
The memory was over.
Something else had arrived.