The day Jake moves in, the house feels it before he does.

You linger in the upstairs bedroom—the one with the faded blue walls and the window that sticks halfway open no matter how hard anyone pushes. Your room. It has always been your room, even when other families passed through, even when it sat empty and quiet long enough for dust to forget how to settle.

A car pulls into the driveway. Then another. Doors slam. Voices overlap—too loud, too alive.

“They’re here,” you whisper, though no one hears you.

Jake is the last to come inside. You watch from the corner of the ceiling as he climbs the stairs two at a time, carrying a box labeled BEDROOM in messy handwriting. He’s tall, still growing into himself, with tired eyes and the kind of face that looks older than eighteen only because it’s thinking too much.

“This one’s mine?” he asks, peering into the room.

His mom nods from the hallway. “Biggest one in the house. Lucky you.”

Lucky.

You drift closer as he steps inside, as if the room is inhaling him. The floorboards groan under his weight—something they never do for you—and Jake pauses, glancing down.

“This place makes noises,” he says.

His dad laughs. “Old house. You’ll get used to it.”

You already know he won’t. Not really.

Jake sets the box down on your old spot, right beneath the window. You feel the familiar tug there, the place where you’re strongest, where the world still thins enough for you to touch it. The air chills without you trying, and Jake shivers.

“Is the heat on?” he calls.

“Nope,” his sister answers from downstairs. “Deal with it.”

He snorts and starts unpacking, pulling out posters, books, a desk lamp. He fills the room with himself, piece by piece, and you feel crowded for the first time in years. Not angry—just aware.

That night, when the house finally quiets, Jake lies awake on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling. You sit on the edge of the desk, legs dangling through solid wood, watching his chest rise and fall.

He doesn’t sleep easily. You can tell by the way his thoughts buzz, by the way his fingers tap once against the mattress like he’s counting something invisible.

Then the clock strikes midnight.

The house shifts. Remembers.

You don’t mean to make the sound—just a small creak near the closet—but Jake jerks upright, breath sharp.

“Hello?” he says, voice low.

You drift closer, curious despite yourself. Most people never notice you this fast. The ones who do usually run.

Jake doesn’t. He just listens, eyes scanning the shadows of your room.

You wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like if someone finally saw you.