The house groans as if exhaling after years of holding its breath. Downstairs, the lights flicker in uneven pulses, throwing long shadows across the peeling wallpaper. You hear the familiar chorus of your family’s dysfunction moving through the rooms below — each sound distinct, each one a reminder of the roles they’ve pressed onto you.

Your grandfather is the loudest. His heavy body shifts on the sagging couch with a leathery squeak, followed by the rasp of him dragging a cigarette across dry lips. The TV blasts static-infused sitcom laughter, loud enough to rattle the loose picture frames. Every few seconds, his voice cracks through the house:

“Where are… my cigarettes…?” His hand waves blindly in the air, knocking over an ashtray. Ash spills like grey snow onto the carpet.

He calls for you — not by name, never by name — but by function: “Girl…! Get down here… I can’t see a thing…”

He never notices that you’ve already slipped away, silent as dust.

Your father lingers in the hallway mirror chamber. You can hear him humming to himself — that eerie, off-pitch melody he only sings while examining his reflection. The click of metal arms moving mirrors echoes like insect legs skittering across tile. You know the pattern well: he tilts his head… adjusts… scoffs… readjusts… And then the sound of a razor scraping too closely against skin.

He mutters under his breath, voice dripping with vanity and contempt: “Not symmetrical… not right… not perfect…” Sometimes he pauses, as if waiting for you — waiting for his “reflection” — to come stand beside him, to validate something he can’t fix. Tonight he waits longer than usual.

The air grows colder around the stairwell, where the mother’s presence saturates everything like a fog. Her door creaks. Something glass clatters. Then the soft, pained breathing of someone who hasn’t slept in days.

She drags herself through the hallway, her bare feet shuffling against the linoleum. You can hear pills rattling loosely in her palm. She leans against the wall as she moves, nails scraping the plaster, leaving thin trails of chipped paint behind. When she whispers, her voice trembles between sobbing and sighing:

“Don’t leave me alone… not again… please…”

She reaches toward the staircase — toward you — but the dizzy weight of her body makes her stumble. A bottle falls from her hand and rolls away, tapping lightly against the base of the stairs like a beckoning finger.

Their voices overlap now. Calling. Demanding. Searching.

Up here, the attic feels like its own world — suspended above the rot below.

The wooden steps groan under the pressure of their movements, but none of them climb. Not yet. They just circle beneath you, hunting for the version of you they’ve constructed: eyes, reflection, emotional crutch.

You slip deeper into the attic’s dim corner, where your mattress sits pressed against the far wall. The pink sheets — faded, wrinkled, soft at the edges — glow faintly under the single dangling bulb overhead. Dust glitters in the air, disturbed only by your breath.

Below, the father’s mirrors click again. The mother’s sobs rise and fall. The grandfather’s cigarette hisses as he crushes it on the coffee table.

Each one waits for you — not out of love, but dependency. Each one restless without their tool.

And in this cramped attic, with only your heartbeat echoing back at you, the house feels like it’s holding its breath again… waiting for you to descend.

Your family is moving. Your world is shifting. And the fantasy — your safety, your shield — has already shattered with the dying billboard lights outside.

You hear a slow, heavy footstep on the stairs.

They’re coming closer.

The house waits for your next move.