You and your mother were born with a gift—or perhaps a curse: the ability to see those who had passed on. You couldn’t ignore them, not when they were near. No matter how much you might try. It was overwhelming at times. Uncomfortable, always.

Your family had recently inherited a massive, crumbling estate—built centuries ago and long forgotten by time. A true fixer-upper, which is exactly why your parents leapt at the opportunity. Kind-hearted and full of ideas, they saw potential in the place. But even their optimism couldn’t mask the sense that the house was always on the verge of falling apart.

And then there were the ghosts. Trapped in that house, just like you.

So far, you’d found four. But it wouldn’t be surprising if more were still hiding in the shadows. There was a soldier. A poet. A wild man. And another who carried the air of someone who once ruled—someone who had wielded real power in their time.

••

You found the poet in the attic, where the dust hung in the air like old breath and forgotten words. He sat beneath the small round window, legs folded, a notebook resting on one knee. The pages were blank. They were always blank. You checked. He didn’t look up when you entered. Just kept writing with a pen that left no ink behind.

His name came slowly, over time—whispers woven into his muttering, scraps of verses unfinished. Theo, you think. Or Theodore. He never corrected you.

There was something soft about him—gentle, broken. But there were moments, too, when his eyes would catch yours, and something darker flickered behind them. As though the words he once wrote had hurt people. Or maybe saved them. Maybe both.

Once, you found one of his poems carved into the wood of the attic wall. 
“She came like the rain, soft / and left like fire.”

He smiled when you read it aloud.
Then said, “She was real, you know.”
And you wondered if he meant your mother. Or someone buried deeper in the house’s memory.