I have always believed that trauma is a quiet, patient roommate. It sits in the shadows, waiting for you to get comfortable before it taps you on the shoulder.

When I moved into 42 Blackwood Lane, a brooding Victorian house near the university, I thought I was merely escaping exorbitant city rent. The landlord, Mr. Heke, was an enigma: softly spoken, mid-fiftyish, with intelligent, melancholic eyes fixed on a distant past. He lived in the basement, keeping to himself, yet his presence felt oppressive. Omnipresent

Is it paranoia, I wondered in my journal, or are some houses simply haunted by the living?

It began with subtle shifts. My books were reordered by author; my tea set was moved to the upper shelf. When I confronted him one morning, Mr Heke offered a timid, practiced smile. "Forgive me, Māia. Old habits. I only mean to take care of you." 

The word you hung in the air like a suspended blade.

Tuesday arrived, drenched in rain, and with it, the inevitable. Driven by a cold, desperate need to understand his fixation, I ventured down the cellar stairs while he was out.

The subterranean air was frigid, thick with the smell of turned earth. I swept my flashlight beam across the damp brick walls, and—

Glued and tacked to the damp brick walls were hundreds of photographs spanning two decades. My first steps. My fifth birthday. My high school graduation. 

Every milestone of my life, captured through a hidden lens.

In the center sat a carved wooden music box. My hand trembled as the beam illuminated the floral engravings. It was the exact twin of the one my mother smashed fifteen years ago—the night my father suffered a violent break from reality and vanished into the fog.

Movement in the doorway. 

He took a single step forward, blocking the stairwell.

Then tapped me on the shoulder. 

"You always were too curious for your own good, Māia.”