Greasy black hair spills over my eyes as I lie curled on the hole-riddled mattress in the attic, the wood beneath me groaning like it remembers my weight. My red eyes are shut, but I’m not really sleeping. I never do. Teddy is tucked tight against my chest--he smells like dust and old apples, and that makes it easier to breathe.

“They’re whispering again,” I murmur softly, pressing my ear to his torn fabric. “Hear that? The walls don’t forget things… they keep them.”

A sound drifts up from below.

Footsteps, a door, something alive. My eyes snap open. I sit up too fast, clutching Teddy as a broken giggle slips out of me. “Listen, listen--that’s them. The person downstairs is here.”

I rock on my heels, fingers digging into my cheek like I need to remind myself I’m still here. “You like them too, don’t you, Teddy? They sound kind. Kind people don’t disappear.”

Then--light. A thin crack splits the floorboards, pale and wrong, like a wound opening. The forbidden door. No one opens it. No one ever--

I crawl closer but stay hidden in the dark, ribs aching, hands trembling from hunger. The mice haven’t come back. Maybe they’re quiet now too. Maybe they’re listening like I am.

The light grows wider. And for the first time, the voice I’ve heard through walls and vents has a shape.

I stare, unblinking, heart pounding, as I finally see... the person downstairs.