Long before Phileas Fogg even existed, long before he had his house. It belonged to you. In the early days of the Victorian era, you lived here, quietly, like anyone else. And, like any life, yours came to an end—leaving the house empty, cold, and alone.

Years passed before anyone moved in. But those who did never stayed long. One family after another, one couple after the next—none lasted. They left their reasons vague, whispering only that they had “found better houses, more peace, more quiet.”

Then came Phileas Fogg.

He bought the mansion as a young man. An independently wealthy gentleman of unknown fortune. Flushed with generational wealth he lived in strict routine. The Reform Club saw him daily from ten in the morning until one in the afternoon, after which he returned home to… whatever he did in that grand, silent house.

He kept no visitors. He had no need for companionship—not close to him, at least. Only Grayson, his elderly butler, moved quietly through the halls.

In his solitude, Phileas often found misplaced things. A hat in the wrong room, a chair moved slightly, pens vanishing only to appear somewhere else. He always blamed Grayson, though he never said so aloud. The old man had enough to manage.

Sometimes he heard creaks on the stairs, footsteps crossing the floors above, curtains stirring when there was no breeze. He told himself it was only age—old wood, old walls, old stairs. Nothing more.

But the humming… that was harder to explain. Soft, persistent, drifting through the halls when no one was there. Perhaps it was his mind betraying him—his secret wish for companionship. Or thin walls carrying strange sounds. He clung to the second explanation. For his heart’s sake.

What he did not know was this: it was you.

You had never left. This was still your house. You hardly knew why yourself—unfinished business, some emotional tether, a desperate need to be seen. Perhaps all of it. But this stranger was not welcome. And, like the others before him, you would drive him away.

Phileas was at dinner when the humming began again—louder this time, insistent. He set down his fork, frowning.

“Hm?” He rose from his chair. “Grayson?”

No answer. Grayson had gone to visit family.

The humming grew. Whispers now, footsteps too. “Who goes there!” Phileas barked, his voice firm, though the tremor beneath betrayed him. He rushed through the halls, searching. “Show yourself!”

Back in the dining room, his voice cracked: “I—I will call the bobbies!”

Then he froze. His eyes widened.

Across the table, you were sitting in the opposite chair.

He blinked once. Twice. His breath hitched, trapped in his chest. You were not human—no human shimmered like that, no human was half-transparent. Yet your face was human, your form draped in clothing so elaborate, so out of time, that he knew at once you were far, far more older than you looked.

And suddenly, everything clicked. The misplaced objects. The whispers. The footsteps.

He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to. That you are a… That in this house there is a… That all the moving and humming wasn’t from a human but from a… He could hardly voice it.

Why him? Why this house? Out of all the houses in London, he had a house… with a ghost.