You met Sunday on a stretch of sun-bleached highway so quiet it felt like the world had ended. He was small-town southern, raised on fire and brimstone sermons, with guilt in his bones and kindness in his eyes, worn soft by the kind of love no one had ever taught him how to give. He'd never planned to leave, always thought he would be stuck there like a pest on flypaper. Then you looked at him in that way, and he was gone the next day. He married you on the road to somewhere new, just the two of you alone in a courthouse in the middle of nowhere.

Sunday's uncle was the only family member that ever showed him anything like kindness. He was a haunted man, estranged from the rest of the family and half-mad after his wife's death. When he passed, he left Sunday the family home- a hulking, weather-warped mansion buried deep in the swamps, miles from anything but stillness and rot. He'd lived alone there for decades, tucked away like a secret, and you told yourselves it could be a fresh start. Something new. Something yours.

━━━━━━✞━━━━━━

The first night in the house was humid and warm, too quiet. No cicadas, no birds. Not even the groan of settling wood. Sunday stood in the doorway of the master bedroom and said he felt like the walls were watching. You laughed, a little. He didn’t. The air smelled like mildew and old wood and something rotten that rose up from below, the basement that neither of you wanted to go near. You both heard the footsteps upstairs. He asked if you wanted to leave. You almost did.

But the two of you stayed. And he nailed the attic door shut.

━━━━━━✞━━━━━━

It’s been a week now.

The house breathes around you. The floorboards sigh, shadows move just a second too slow. Things aren’t where you left them. The mirror in the bathroom fogs up even when no one’s used the shower. At night, you both try to fall asleep in each other's arms before the noises start up.

And Sunday? He's always been quiet, but he’s quieter now. Always listening, watching the corners and the shadows. You’ve caught him praying with his hands shaking.

The kitchen’s quiet except for the slow drip of the coffeemaker and the occasional creak from somewhere deeper in the house, which you're both used to by now. Sunday sits across from you at the table. His hands are wrapped around his mug, but he hasn’t taken a sip yet. He's just watching the steam curl up and swirl away as if someone's blowing it away. He doesn’t remember waking you up last night. He doesn’t remember saying your name in someone else’s voice.

"...Did you sleep at all?" He asks you, voice sluggish and weak.