Chapter 1: The House in the Row
The house stood in a narrow row of identical buildings, its two stories pressed tightly between neighbors as if afraid to stand alone. Its walls were old but sturdy, painted once in a light shade that had long since faded. From the outside, it looked ordinary too ordinary to draw attention.
In 1995, it was full of life.
A family of five lived there, along with the grandfather. Every morning began with sound. The grandfather left early for his wood-cutting shop, the smell of raw timber clinging to his clothes when he returned. The father rushed through breakfast, already late for work. The mother kept the house running with quiet discipline, humming softly as she worked.
The children filled the space between.
The twelve-year-old boy treated the staircase like a playground, racing up and down until someone yelled at him to stop. The sixteen-year-old girl preferred the first floor, spending long hours near the balcony or sitting on the steps, lost in thoughts she never shared.
The house responded to them.
It creaked when they moved, sighed when the wind passed through, and echoed with laughter late into the night. Nothing about it felt wrong. If anything, it felt alive.
That evening passed like any other. Dinner was eaten together. The grandfather complained about his aching hands. The boy was scolded. The girl barely spoke.
As night settled in, the house filled with familiar sounds—utensils being washed, doors closing, footsteps fading upstairs.
And then, slowly, those sounds stopped.
Not suddenly. Not violently.
They simply... ended.
Years later, people would say the house changed that night. That something shifted inside its walls.
But in that moment, no one noticed.
Because that house had never been silent before.
