Chapter 12

When Mila moved into Number 14 on Willow Street, everyone said she was lucky.

The house was small but charming. The previous owner had left behind flowerpots on the windowsills and handwritten recipe cards tucked into kitchen drawers. The neighbors waved whenever she walked past.

“It’s nice to have someone living there again,” Mrs. Holloway from next door said. “The house gets lonely.”

Mila laughed at that.

Over the following weeks, life settled into a peaceful routine.

Every morning, she found little acts of kindness.

A blanket folded neatly over the couch when she’d forgotten it there.

A mug already set out for her coffee.

Fresh flowers arranged in a vase on the dining table, though she couldn’t remember buying any.

She assumed she was absent-minded. Work had been exhausting lately.

Still, it felt… comforting.

She began speaking aloud to the empty house.

“Thanks,” she’d joke whenever she discovered another thoughtful surprise.

The old floorboards would creak softly in response.

Months passed.

One rainy afternoon, Mila finally introduced herself to a neighbor she hadn’t met before—a thin man trimming hedges across the street.

“You moved into Number 14?” he asked.

“About three months ago.”

The hedge clippers slipped from his hand.

He stared at her.

“That’s impossible.”

Mila forced a laugh. “I think I’d know where I live.”

“No,” he whispered. “The fire happened four years ago.”

“What fire?”

“The one at Number 14.”

A cold sensation crawled up her spine.

“The woman who lived there died trying to escape. She kept running back inside because she thought someone else was in the house with her.”

He looked directly into Mila’s eyes.

“They never rebuilt it.”

Mila laughed again.

A shaky, nervous sound.

“You’re joking.”

The man slowly pointed across the street.

“There.”

Rain dripped from his fingertips.

Mila turned.

Where Number 14 should have stood…

…was an empty, overgrown lot.

No flowerpots.

No windows.

No front door.

Only blackened stone foundations swallowed by weeds.

Her umbrella slipped from her grasp.

“No,” she whispered.

She stumbled backward, looking between the lot and the neighbor.

“But I’ve been living there.”

The man’s face had gone pale.

“You’ve been standing in that field every morning for three months,” he said quietly.

“You wave at us.”

Mila opened her mouth to answer.

Then she remembered something.

Every evening, after work, she had thanked the house.

And every evening…

the floorboards had answered.

Behind her, from the empty lot, a familiar creak echoed through the rain.

Then a voice she recognized as her own said softly:

“You’re home.”