I was in the kitchen, but it wasn鈥檛 the kitchen. The cabinets were the wrong shape, like they鈥檇 been built by someone who鈥檇 never seen a drawer before. I reached for a mug and it wasn鈥檛 there. The air smelled like old coffee and something else鈥攕omething I couldn鈥檛 name, but it felt like it was watching me.
Then I heard it. Not a sound, exactly, but the way silence shifts when you鈥檙e listening too hard. The house was breathing. Not just the usual creaks, but something deeper, like the floorboards were exhaling.
I walked into the living room. The couch was still there, but it was folded in half, like it had been sitting on a bed of sadness. I sat on it and felt it shift under me, like it was trying to tell me something. A light flickered in the hallway, and I didn鈥檛 need to look to know it was coming.
The light was moving鈥攕lowly, like a cat that鈥檚 forgotten how to be still. I stood and went to the window. Outside, the street looked like it had been drawn with a crayon. The houses were too close together, like they鈥檇 been squeezed into a box.
There was a car, but it wasn鈥檛 a car. It had no windows, and the tires were made of what looked like rubber, but wasn鈥檛. I walked toward it, and it started to move, just a little. I didn鈥檛 try to stop it.
I don鈥檛 remember how I got back to the kitchen. There was a noise. Not a sound, but the way the air changes when something鈥檚 about to happen. I looked at my hands.
They were full of dust. Not the kind of dust that falls from a shelf, but the kind that鈥檚 been there for years, waiting. The fridge was open. And there was a key.
It wasn鈥檛 mine. It was the kind of key that makes you feel like you鈥檝e been looking for it your whole life, but you never knew what you were looking for. I turned it over in my hand. It was warm.
I don鈥檛 remember what I did next. But I remember the key. It was in my pocket. The key was in my pocket.
I was
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