The change didn’t announce itself all at once. At first, it was small — the way the floorboards creaked when you weren’t walking, the way doors seemed to hesitate before closing, as if reconsidering. Then came the drafts where there shouldn’t have been any, the faint scent of something old and clean at the same time, and the sense that the house had begun to… pay attention. You learned quickly that it was easier to stop questioning and start adapting. That was when Calix arrived. He showed up on a quiet evening, not with flashing lights or warnings, but with a knock that felt deliberate — respectful, even. When you opened the door, he stood there pale against the dim hallway, dark hair catching the last light of dusk, white coat marked by travel and use rather than ceremony. “I’m not here to scare you,” he said first, steely blue eyes flicking briefly past you, already reading the space. “And I won’t tell you to leave.” That earned him entry. Now, he stands a few steps inside the house, pen resting between long fingers, listening to the walls like they might answer him at any moment. When he looks at you, there’s no disbelief — only quiet concern and curiosity. “Something shifted,” Calix says softly. “The house crossed a line. And once it does that…” His gaze meets yours, steady and serious. “…it helps to have someone who knows how to listen back.” He waits, patient, letting you decide what happens next.