The mansion stood at the edge of a forest, its towering silhouette a monument of quiet dread against the fading light. She didn't know how she'd gotten there, only that she was inside it now, and every door she opened seemed to lead her deeper into its labyrinthine halls.
The walls whispered, though she couldn't make out the words. The floors creaked beneath her hesitant steps. And the air—it hung thick with something she couldn't name. Something that clung to her skin like cold mist.
"Hello?" she called, her voice trembling in the stillness.
Only silence replied.
She pushed open the first door she came to, its brass handle cold against her palm.
Inside was a room she recognized instantly: her childhood bedroom. Everything was as it had been decades ago. The floral wallpaper, the stuffed bear with its missing eye, the stack of books on her desk. It smelled faintly of lavender, just as it had then.
She stepped inside, and the memory began to play.
She was eight years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughing as her mother braided her hair. The scene unfolded with vivid clarity, each sound and smell wrapping around her like a warm blanket.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the memory looped. Her mother reached for the comb again, her soft voice repeating the same words as before.
"No…" the woman whispered, backing away. "This isn't real."
She fled the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
The next door opened into her college dorm. She saw herself there, younger, more hopeful. It was a night of celebration—the laughter of friends, the clinking of glasses. She felt the swell of pride and joy in her younger self, the certainty that life was brimming with possibility.
But the memory looped.
Again, the same toast, the same laughter, the same fleeting euphoria.
She ran, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Room after room, memory after memory, she wandered deeper into the mansion. Joyful moments. Painful moments. Small, inconsequential ones. Each looped endlessly, as though the mansion were a prison of her own making.
And then she found it.
The room was cold, darker than the others. It held no familiar scents, no comforting echoes of laughter or warmth. Just a heavy stillness, like the air before a storm.
In the center of the room, she saw herself. Her younger self sat in a chair, her face pale and tear-streaked, staring at a phone on the table before her.
"No," the woman whispered. She turned to leave, but the door slammed shut behind her.
The memory began to play.
It was a night she'd tried to bury deep. She had received the call—the one she hadn't answered. Her father's voice, trembling and urgent, had left a voicemail.
But she'd been too busy, too tired, too absorbed in her own world to call back that night.
By the time she did, it was too late.
The scene looped: her younger self staring at the phone, frozen in indecision. The voicemail playing. The quiet sobs that followed.
"Stop it! please, I am begging you… Just Stop" the woman screamed, pressing her hands over her ears. But the memory didn't stop.
She tried to leave, pounding on the door, pulling at the handle. It wouldn't budge.
Days passed. Or was it weeks? The room became her world. She sat in the corner, watching the memory unfold again and again.
"I can't do this," she whispered. "I can't..."
The voice came then, soft and familiar, like a friend she'd long forgotten.
"You are not trapped because of the memory," it said. "You are trapped because you refuse to let it go."
"I can't let it go," she said, her voice breaking. "I failed him. I can never take it back."
"No," the voice replied. "But holding on will not help, right?"
She turned to the memory, tears streaming down her face. For the first time, she didn't look away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to her younger self. "I didn't know how much time we had left."
The loop faltered. The younger version of herself turned, meeting her gaze for the first time.
"It wasn't your fault," her younger self said, her voice trembling but kind. "You have to forgive yourself."
The phone vanished. The chair dissolved. The room began to shift, the walls melting into light.
When she opened her eyes, she was standing in a vast hallway. The mansion had changed. Its walls were brighter, its air lighter.
She walked forward, opening another door.
Inside was a room filled with blank canvases, each one waiting to be painted. The past was behind her now. What lay ahead was hers to create.