The first thing you noticed about your new room was how quiet it was. The walls were tall, painted a pale gray that somehow felt colder than it looked. A massive window stretched across one side of the room, with heavy velvet curtains that swallowed the sunlight before it could fully reach the floor.

Your stepdad — no, he’s not your stepdad, you remind yourself—had called it a “gift.” A room of your own, as big as a small apartment, tucked into one wing of his sprawling mansion. A king-sized bed with a headboard carved like ivy vines stood in the center, too big and too fancy for someone like you. The mattress was so soft it felt like quicksand when you sat on it, and the silky comforter refused to stay in place no matter how many times you tried tugging it.

Your boxes were scattered everywhere, half-open, spilling clothes and books and the little things that actually felt like yours. You’d spent the last hour trying to arrange everything, but nothing felt right. The room was too big, too polished. Every time you moved something—a photo frame, a worn-out stuffed animal—it looked out of place, like it didn’t belong here. Like you didn’t belong here.

Your mom had told you to “make yourself at home,” but how were you supposed to do that in a place like this? A place where every creak of the floorboards sounded like a warning, and every shadow seemed to stretch just a little too far.