He didn't sit at the table.
He stood there, staring down at it like it was mocking him. One plate. One cup. One lemon, already sliced, resting neatly on a white ceramic dish. The knife beside it gleamed, freshly cleaned.
It looked like a hotel breakfast.
It looked like a trap.
Elias didn't move.
The room waited with him.
The overhead light hummed softly, constant, unblinking. The whole house was too quiet.
No creaks.
No wind.
Even the ever-present ticking clock had gone still.
Like the house was holding its breath.
And waiting for him to break.
He took a shaky breath and backed away from the table. One step. Two.
The floor felt soft beneath his shoes, too soft.
Not carpet. Not tile. More like... skin. Or something stretching just under the surface.
He kept moving.
He turned sharply into the hallway, walking fast now. Not running. Not yet. But every step echoed louder than it should've, like the house was magnifying his panic.
Chasing him with the sound of his own fear.
He passed the crooked photo frame again. Still crooked.
He fixed it. Out of habit. Out of spite.
Five steps later, he passed the same photo.
Crooked.
Again.
That was when he started to lose it.
He spun around, kicked the wall. Shouted into the air.
"What do you want?!"
His voice cracked.
The house didn't respond.
It never did.
It just… watched.
And waited.
He stumbled into the study and slammed the door behind him. Leaned against it. Heart pounding. Hands shaking. Vision blurring at the edges.
He was trapped.
Really trapped.
No exit. No window. Just endless rooms wrapped around themselves like intestines. The house was a maze. A loop. A parasite. And it was eating him alive.
He slid to the floor, his back against the door. Pressed his palms to his face.
His breath caught.
What if this was it?
What if he never got out?
What if this place kept folding and shifting until even he forgot who he was?
What if he was already forgetting?
He looked at his notebook. Pages missing. Pages filled with handwriting he didn't remember writing. Notes that didn't feel like his voice anymore. More like... suggestions. Prompts.
Like the house was filling in his thoughts.
His chest tightened.
He pressed his hands against his head. His mind, usually sharp, exact, unbreakable, was unraveling, and fast.
"Stop," he whispered. "Stop thinking. Stop looking. Stop..."
But he couldn't.
He opened his eyes.
And saw the books.
Still on the shelf.
Except,
One of them didn't belong.
The Garden of Broken Hours.
He hadn't seen it before.
He stood. Slowly. Eyes locked on the spine. He approached it like a wild animal. Carefully. Quietly.
Then he pulled it from the shelf.
The moment his fingers touched it, the house shuddered.
The floor groaned. A long, low sound like something rolling in its sleep.
He opened the book.
Inside, his own handwriting Pages of it. Copied word for word. His notes. His observations. Everything he'd seen and said inside this place. Every realization. Every failure. Even things he hadn't said out loud.
He flipped faster. The handwriting blurred.
Until,
Keep going. You're almost out.
It wasn't his writing.
But it looked like it wanted to be.
He froze.
And that's when something clicked.
Not in the house.
In him.
He looked up at the shelves, now bare.
He looked at the walls, flexing.
He looked at the door, pulsing.
The house wasn't just alive.
It was learning him.
Mimicking his thoughts.
Anticipating.
Reacting.
Not random. Responsive.
It was trying to hold him. But not by force.
By familiarity.
Comfort. Repetition. Memory.
All the things he trusted.
It was using his own tools against him.
So he turned it around.
He stepped out of the study, not quietly, not hesitantly. With purpose.
He ran through the hallway, turning at angles that made no sense. He kicked over photo frames, moved chairs, hummed offbeat notes. Anything to disrupt the rhythm.
Don't give it a pattern.
He walked in circles, whispered false thoughts, scratched the walls in random places.
The house started to respond.
Lights flickered. Walls narrowed. The temperature dropped.
It was frustrated
It was angry.
He smiled. For the first time in what felt like hours, he smiled.
Then he saw it.
A door.
Not wooden. Not red. Not hidden.
Glass.
He could see through it, sunlight. Trees. The world.
The real world.
He didn't run.
He walked.
He gritted his teeth and walked straight toward it, like it wasn't even special. Like it was just a door. Just another puzzle. Just another ending.
The hallway roared behind him. Pictures screamed from their frames. The air pulsed, trying to knock him off balance.
But he didn't stop.
He reached the door.
Pushed.
Light.
The real kind.
He stumbled forward, shoes hitting pavement. His knees gave out and he collapsed onto the grass.
Wind.
Distant birds.
Elias looked up, squinting against the sun. His chest was heaving. His body shaking.
But he was out.
The door behind him was gone.
He laughed, short, breathless. Almost like a sob.
He wiped his face with both hands.
And that's when he felt it.
Something in his coat pocket.
He froze.
Slowly, carefully, he reached in.
And pulled out a lemon.
Perfect.
Whole.
Still cold.
Still fresh.
He stared at it for a long, quiet moment.
Right then, a hand softly grabbed his shoulder.
"Hello friend."