The house borrows other voices until you lend it yours. Then the bell stops begging and begins to invite.

Stars teaching the clock its manners. A returned diminutive. The room isn’t empty—it shelters versions of you not yet whole.

The reflection runs late and practices your meetings. The window remembers first; the house receives second.

Even doors, one odd room. A mirror that lags, a photo that updates itself, and a house that learns your name in a whisper.