The rain had turned heavy by the time he reached the house.
He stood under the porch, soaked and shivering, staring at the door that shouldn’t have been there. The last time he’d passed this road, there’d been only ruins—an empty lot overgrown with ivy.
But now the cottage stood whole again, windows glowing with soft yellow light.
He hesitated, then knocked.
It opened almost immediately.
She stood there, frail but steady, wrapped in a dark coat that looked older than either of them. “You came back,” she said simply, as if he were expected.
He stared past her shoulder. The parlor beyond looked exactly as he remembered—furniture in place, the rug neatly folded at the corners, even the small oil lamp flickering beside the piano.
Except it couldn’t be. That room had burned down years ago.
He stepped inside anyway. The floor creaked beneath him in the same places it always had. The air smelled of lavender and ash.
“I thought this place was gone,” he said.
She smiled. “Places don’t vanish. People just stop finding them.”
He looked around, half expecting the walls to crumble. But everything remained—solid, dustless, preserved. Only the portrait above the mantel was different. It was his face, though he didn’t remember ever sitting for it.
“When did you paint that?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” she said. “You left it here.”
He turned sharply. “That’s impossible.”
Her smile faded. “So is this.”
The lamp flickered. The air grew colder. The sound of rain vanished, replaced by a low hum, as though the house itself were breathing.
He took a step backward. “What is this place?”
Her gaze was steady. “It’s memory,” she said softly. “And you keep unlocking it.”
He reached for the door. It wouldn’t move. The knob was warm, pulsing faintly under his palm.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” she whispered. “It’s harder to leave each time.”
When he turned, the parlor was empty. Only the portrait remained—now showing both of them, standing side by side.
Outside, the storm had stopped.
But the house was gone again.