After hours of walking, he reached a strange terrain. The earth appeared disturbed, as if someone had tried to hide something beneath it. In the middle of this landscape, a barely visible structure stood out: the roof of a buried house.
Elvira stopped.
“It can’t be…” he murmured.
Curiosity overcame fear. He approached slowly and began to remove the earth with his hands. Little by little, he uncovered an old wooden door, covered in roots.
He pushed.
The door gave way with a deep creak, as if waking from a long sleep.
Inside, the air was cold, but not deserted. There was furniture covered in dust, but untouched. A table, a chair, a bed… and something else. A feeling.
As if someone had been waiting.
Elvira closed the door behind her. She had no other choice. That buried house would be her refuge.
That night he slept soundly for the first time in years.
But she was not alone.
In the early hours of the morning, a noise woke her. Footsteps. Slow. Dragging.
He sat up suddenly.
“Is anyone there?” he asked, his voice trembling.
Silence.
He got up and walked around the house. Nothing. Only shadows.
He thought it had been a dream… until he saw something that wasn’t there before.
On the table, there was a cup.
And it was hot.
Elvira stepped back.
—No… I’m not alone here…
From that moment on, strange things began to happen. Objects that changed places, barely audible whispers in the walls, and dreams… dreams that didn’t seem to be hers.
I dreamed of a little girl.
A little girl was running through that same house, laughing.
A girl who one day stopped laughing.
