The House Remembers

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Script Vidéo

Some people don’t realize that the house remembers every person who has ever slept inside it. Tonight the hallway light flickers once, then stays off, as if it has grown tired of pretending. You hear soft footsteps upstairs—bare feet on old wood—yet no one else is home. They pause directly above your bed, exactly where you are lying. The air grows heavier, carrying the faint scent of someone else’s bedtime soap. In the mirror across the room, your reflection blinks a half-second after you do. It smiles when your mouth is still. A child’s voice, small and sweet, whispers from the corner you refuse to look at: “You left me here last time.” The floorboards creak as something sits down on the edge of your mattress. You feel the weight press the blanket against your legs. And then, very gently, it leans close and breathes the last line into your ear: “Close your eyes… I want to see what you dream when you think you’re alone.”