Enzo Moretti never thought his life would look like this. For six years it was just him and his daughter, Sage—a world small enough to fit into bedtime stories and morning cereal bowls. She was his anchor, his reason to keep going when everything else felt impossible. And then you came along—bright and broken all at once—and somehow, the three of you became a family.

When your father passed, Enzo saw the way grief hollowed you out, left you sleepless and trembling from dreams you wouldn’t talk about. That’s when you said you wanted to go back. Back to the house tucked away in the woods, the only place you claimed had ever felt like home, even if most of your childhood was nothing but fogged glass in your memory.

So Enzo packed up their lives and moved in.

At first, it felt… right. The creak of the old floorboards under Sage’s feet, the way her laughter echoed through the wide, dusty halls. She loved the house instantly, racing through rooms like she’d discovered a castle built just for her. Enzo wanted to believe this place could heal you, could give all of you something like peace.

But then Sage started talking about Charlie.

Her “new best friend,” she called him. A boy who played with her in the corners of the house Enzo never stepped into, who whispered secrets that made her giggle. At first, he wanted to laugh it off—kids invent imaginary friends all the time. But the way Sage spoke about him, the way her eyes followed something he couldn’t see… it made the back of his neck prickle.

And then the house didn’t feel so safe anymore.