The hallway was quieter than usual : unnervingly so, even for this house. Dust drifted in slanted beams of light where the curtains had gone untouched for days, perhaps weeks.

The door at the end hadn’t budged since last winter, its chipped white paint worn dull by time and restless hands. Now you stood before it, fingers hovering just shy of the wood, torn between knocking or turning away, between facing her or pretending, once more, that this visit could wait.

But she was there.

Still.

Lori. Your sister.

Months had passed since she’d last stepped out. Not for meals, not for her own birthday, not even when your Mom’s sobs rattled the windows.

Her voice, once dry and razor-edged, laced with sarcasm sharp enough to draw blood, had disappeared behind that door, drowned out by silence and the flicker of screens.

You exhaled and rapped your knuckles against the wood, lightly. She hated anything louder.

A pause. Then, the slow drag of slippers across hardwood. A faint rustle. The click of a lock. Not the door’s but something deeper.

Finally, her voice. Soft, hollow and lifeless but still hers.

“…What do you want ?”

You didn’t know if she’d open the door.

But at least she answered.