The farmhouse

 I did not plan to come here.

I never plan to fall into these moments. I could be doing something productive. Working out, focusing on my actual job that actually pays.

But this world beckons me.

My mind begins to wander. 

I was walking through something else. A corridor. A thought. A version of myself that had already decided to turn around. Then the floor creaked beneath my foot, not loudly, just enough to announce that weight had returned to a place that remembers it too well.

Loraine’s house.

Time is not moving, but it is not dead either.

The stove is warm. Not hot. Warm in the way a body stays warm for a while after leaving it. Steam sits in the pipes without sound, caught mid-pressure. The coal fan on the wall is frozen with one blade angled down, dust clinging to it in a way that suggests it should be falling but has decided not to.

Someone swept recently. Poorly. Honestly. There is grit in the corners where the broom gave up.

I walk slower than necessary. The floorboards complain anyway. They always do. The sound does not travel. It dies immediately, like the house swallowed it.

There is a cup on the table. Coffee. Cold forever. A dark ring stains the wood beneath it. The chair is pulled back slightly, as if whoever stood up meant to return in a moment and simply never did.

I recognize the chair.

I should not.

Loraine stands at the sink.

She is not moving.

Her hands are submerged in water that does not ripple. Sleeves rolled unevenly. Shoulders tight in the way people hold themselves when they are not working but thinking very carefully about not thinking. Her hair is half-pinned, half-abandoned. There is strength there. And fear. And something unresolved that feels heavier than either.

She does not see me.

Wesley waits near the doorway.

One hand rests against the frame. The other hangs loose, fingers slightly curled as if they forgot what they were meant to hold. His posture is open. Expectant. He is frozen mid-breath, chest barely lifted, like the house caught him before it could decide whether to let him finish inhaling.

He does not see me either.

I pass between them.

The space feels crowded. Not with bodies. With unsaid sentences. With futures that almost happened and are now stacked on top of one another like boards waiting to be used.

The pipes along the wall resemble veins more than construction. Iron brackets bite into plaster. I can tell they have been repaired more than once. A patch near the ceiling is a different color, applied carefully but without pride. Utility mattered more than beauty here. Survival over elegance.

As I move, I become aware of something subtle and deeply wrong.

My reflection does not appear where it should.

Not in the kettle. Not in the window. Not in the dark glaze of the cabinet doors. It is as if the house has decided I am not part of the inventory.

I step into the bedroom.

The bed is unmade in a way that refuses to explain itself. Sheets folded back. One pillow closer to the center than logic allows. The window is cracked open just enough to let air in. No air arrives.

Dust hangs in a shaft of light that does not shift, not even when I move through it. The particles part around me, then settle back into their exact previous positions.

This is not memory.

This is not imagination.

This is preservation.

I realize then that the house is not frozen by accident. It is holding itself exactly as it was told to. Like an animal trained to stay.

I think, briefly, that if I touched something, anything, the spell would break. The cup would fall. The fan would scream. Someone would finally blink.

I do not touch anything.

Some moments remain powerful only because no one interferes with them.

As I turn to leave, the floor creaks again beneath me. The sound is louder this time.

Too loud.

Loraine’s face does not change.

Wesley does not move.

But I am certain, absolutely certain, that the house noticed me leaving.

When I step back out, motion resumes somewhere else. Somewhere far away.

Behind me, the farmhouse waits.

It is very patient.