The House That Waited

The night had been restless. Alexander stirred under his thin blanket, eyelids fluttering as the house of his dreams unfolded again. He had drawn it a hundred times in his mind, but in sleep it always appeared sharper, more real: a sprawling Spanish colonial mansion with sun-drenched courtyards, winding staircases, and a balcony overlooking a garden that seemed to shimmer in golden light.

He could see the intricate carvings on the wooden doors, the lattice windows catching the breeze, the red-tiled roof glowing in the dreamlike afternoon. And yet, there was a melancholy in the place — a quiet sadness that made the walls feel alive, as though they were keeping a story too heavy to tell.

Alexander jolted awake, the remnants of the dream fading like mist. He rubbed his eyes, staring at the bare walls of his dormitory in the UST College of Architecture. He didn’t know why the house haunted him so vividly. He had never seen it before, at least not consciously. But somehow, the floorplans, the angles, the staircases — they felt like second nature.

Across campus, in the College of Fine Arts, another student awoke from the same dream. Mateo shook his head, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. The same house had returned again, vivid in color and life: the sunlight falling across a marble fountain, the sweep of the balcony, the way the shadows of the trees danced over the tiled courtyard. He had never seen it either, yet in his mind it was real. It felt personal, intimate, as if the house remembered him.

Mateo sighed, running his fingers over the edges of his sketchbook. “Why do I keep dreaming of this place?” he muttered.

The next morning, Alexander carried his sketchbook across campus, the dream still clinging to him. For his assignment, he had to draw a building of historical significance. Without thinking, he opened to a fresh page and began tracing the arches and staircases from the house that had haunted him for weeks. Every line flowed naturally, as if his hands remembered what his eyes had never seen.

A shadow fell over his sketch. “Hey... is that what I think it is?”

He looked up. A classmate — Mateo — stood there, holding his own sketchpad, eyes wide. On it was the same house, though Mateo’s version emphasized the gardens, the fountain, the play of sunlight. Alexander froze.

“I... I just drew what came to me,” Alexander said, voice hesitant.

Mateo swallowed, turning the sketch slightly. “Me too. I... I don’t even know why. I’ve never seen this place, but...” His fingers hovered over the fountain in the drawing. “It’s exactly like in my dream. I thought I was imagining it.”

Alexander felt a strange flutter in his chest. There was something about Mateo — something familiar, almost magnetic. He shook his head. No, that’s ridiculous. Yet, the sensation lingered, pulling at something deep inside him, something he couldn’t name.

The two students leaned over their drawings, comparing lines, curves, and details. The house seemed to emerge between them, more alive than ever. And for a fleeting moment, neither questioned why they both felt a strange sense of longing, a weight of emotion neither could explain.

As they parted for class, Alexander’s gaze lingered. He felt drawn to Mateo in a way that made no sense — a pull he could not rationalize. Meanwhile, Mateo clutched his sketchbook tighter, a shiver running down his spine. Both carried the same unspoken question: Why does this house feel like home... and why does the other feel like something I’ve lost before?

Neither knew it yet, but the house in their dreams was more than a memory. It was a story waiting to be told, a love frozen in time, a life left unfinished — and soon, it would find them.