The house that remembers
Prologue: The House That Remembers
The train never should have stopped.
Not here. Not for me.
Yet, the moment the wheels screech against the tracks, I know—this place has been waiting. For how long, I cannot say. Time does not move naturally in the mist.
I step onto the platform, and the cold clings to my skin like something alive, something with fingers and breath and memory. The sign above me is broken, its letters long faded, but the graffiti scrawled beneath it is fresh. One word, written in frantic, uneven strokes:
ECHOES.
A gust of wind stirs the fog, and for a split second, I see them—figures in the mist. Watching. Listening. Remembering.
I clutch the slip of paper in my hand, the only clue I have.
Find the House That Remembers.
I don’t remember writing it.
But I know the house is already waiting for me.
And it does not forget.