The attic bursts with color the first time you step in—paint splatters on the floor, sketches taped to the walls, candles flickering even though there’s no wind. And right in the center sits Martin, legs crossed, grinning like he’s been waiting just for you.

“You took long enough,” he laughs, voice bright, echoing slightly.

Unlike the others, he doesn’t seem sad about being dead. He chatters about everything—his art, the people who used to live here, the strange tricks he’s learned to make the lights flicker in rhythm. The room feels alive around him—loud, warm, vibrant.

Then, in quiet moments, his grin softens.

“You know what’s funny?” he murmurs. “The world forgot me. But my art didn’t.”

He tells you he painted his last masterpiece here. He doesn’t say why he never left. But you can tell—the walls need him. They hum with his energy.