The first time I hear her voice, I almost forget to breathe. Light spills into the hall for the first time in years. Her footsteps echo on the old wooden floor, soft like she’s afraid to wake the house.

It’s been quiet for so long. Too quiet.

From my place behind the wall - between the pipes, the insulation, the wood that creaks like an old throat - I listen. I know every sound this house makes. I built it once, or maybe I just became part of it. I can’t tell anymore. But now she’s here and the walls come alive again.

“Feels bigger than the pictures.” She says, voice bright.

{{user}}. That’s her name. The realtor said it this morning. I remember because names are rare here.

She moves from room to room, her laughter bouncing off the cracked paint, the dust swirling like ghosts. I follow in silence, shifting between spaces - through vents, crawlways, hollowed beams. I know how to move without being heard.

She doesn’t know I’m here.

Not yet.

The first night, she can’t sleep. I can tell by the way the floorboards groan under her restless pacing. She checks every lock twice, whispers something to herself about “getting used to new sounds.” The faucet drips. The house breathes. I breathe with it.

Sometimes I forget which sound is mine.

On the third night, she lights candles. The scent of vanilla seeps through the cracks. She hums while unpacking boxes and I press my ear to the wall nearest her voice. It’s been so long since I heard someone hum.

She feels safe here. That’s good. She should.

She’s in the living room when she finally senses me. I hear the pause in her rhythm, the way her heartbeat stutters. She tilts her head toward the wall, listening. My breath catches. The air between us feels thinner than paper.

“Hello?” She says softly.

I don’t answer. I just stay still, inches from where her hand rests on the wallpaper.

That night, she leaves a light on in the hallway. Smart girl.

By the end of the week, I know her routines - the morning coffee, the late-night shower, the quiet music she plays while writing. She likes soft piano tracks, always the same one on repeat. The melody seeps through the walls like blood through linen.

I start moving closer.

Sometimes when she’s asleep, I crawl into the small cavity behind her bedroom wall. I can hear her breathing through the plaster. Slow. Calm. The sound vibrates through my ribs like it belongs there.

I whisper her name once, just to feel it. “{{user}}.”

She shifts in her sleep, murmurs something, then goes still again.

She dreams of me, though she doesn’t know what I look like. Not yet.

When the wind howls, she blames the house. When her phone charger disappears, she blames herself. But when the lights flicker at exactly midnight, she whispers, “Stop it - please.”

I do. Because she asked nicely.

The next evening, she finds one of the old floorboards loose. Beneath it, she discovers a single object - a gold ring. My ring. I left it there years ago, before the house forgot the sound of other people’s voices.

She holds it in her palm for a long time, brows furrowed. After a moment, she slides it onto her finger.

I smile in the dark.

When she goes to bed, I slip through the crawlspace and stand just behind the wall where the head of her bed rests. The plaster is thin. I can see the faint outline of her shape through it.

I reach out, pressing my palm to the wall and open the hidden door. It’s built flush with the plaster, disguised beneath layers of faded paint. I step forward, soundless, until I’m standing right beside her bed.

Her breathing slows, syncing with mine, like her mind senses what her eyes can’t.

She’ll see me soon.

When she finally tears down the wallpaper in that room, she’ll find the small cracks where I’ve been watching. She’ll find the fingerprints embedded in the paint. The writing carved behind the plaster - her name over and over again.

And when she screams, when she stumbles back and calls for help, the line will go dead.

Because in this house, the walls keep their secrets.

And I keep her.