A burning Rose

The Strangers House

FIYIN

The moment the car slowed to a stop, my palms went clammy.

This wasn’t just a house—it was an estate. Tall iron gates, manicured hedges, the kind of lawn that never met a struggling patch. The driveway stretched like a red carpet. Everything gleamed—like it had been waiting for someone important. Not me.

Feddie didn’t say much as he got out, didn’t ask if I was ready, didn’t glance back. Just unlocked the front door and held it open.

I stood outside for a moment too long.

Not because I was scared of the house. No. I was scared of what walking into it might mean. That I was officially his problem. That I had no idea what came next. That he might still vanish again.

I stepped in.

The house smelled of leather and lemon polish. Everything had a place—and a purpose. It was the kind of clean that made you afraid to breathe wrong. Marble floors. High ceilings. A staircase that curled like it belonged in a movie where rich people drink wine at 11 a.m.

I didn’t say a word. My voice got stuck somewhere between my ribs and my throat.

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Crisp. Clean. Like a hotel ad trying too hard to say “Look, we use lemon.”

The second thing I noticed was how quiet it was.

Too quiet. No humming fridge. No clicking fan. No footsteps. Just… silence.

His house was beautiful in a way that felt curated. Polished wood floors. Art that looked expensive and confusing. Shelves lined with books that seemed like they were chosen for how good their spines looked.

I lingered by the door, unsure if I was meant to take off my shoes or… bow?

Feddie didn’t say anything about that. He was already halfway across the living room, loosening the cuffs of his shirt as he spoke like this was the most normal day in the world.

“You’ll stay in the guest room. Upstairs. "Last door on the left,” he said. His voice had a careful politeness to it. Like he was trying not to scare a wild animal.

I nodded. That was all I could manage.

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flickering around like he was searching for a manual on “How to Host an Amnesiac.”

“If you need anything, uh... just ask. Kitchen’s through there. Help yourself.”

Still mute. Still nodding.

That night, I didn’t sleep much. The bed was too soft. The silence too loud. The air too clean. I missed the distant coughing from the hospital ward, the squeaky wheels of medicine carts, Achie’s off-key humming, even Mama Deka’s tired sighs.

In this house, there was no sound. Only the distant clicks of a man walking alone.

And so I stayed invisible.

For over a week, I mastered it.

I learned the sounds of his schedule—when the front door creaked open and slammed shut, when his keys dropped on the counter, when he answered calls in his study, his voice clipped and low. I learned to sneak into the kitchen during his meetings. I waited until I heard the shower before I crept downstairs. I didn’t wander. Didn’t ask questions.

If I was going to live here, I was going to be careful.

Safe.

The more invisible, the better.

I ate in silence. I cleaned up after myself. I folded laundry that wasn’t mine, more to feel useful than anything else.

He hadn’t asked me a single personal question.

And I hadn’t volunteered a thing.

Still, sometimes—when I walked past the railing upstairs—I’d catch him watching. Not in a creepy way. More like he was trying to solve a riddle no one gave him the clues to.

I nodded. Said nothing.

He looked at me then. Really looked. Like he was trying to figure out what species I was.

I didn’t return the favor. I stared at the shiny vase beside the door. It looked breakable. Like me.

He didn’t push.

Just gave a soft sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and disappeared into another room.

That was a week ago.

And in that time, I became an expert in the art of strategic invisibility.

I only come downstairs when I know he’s not home. I eat while listening for the sound of his car pulling up. I wash my plate like it’s a ritual and return to my room like a ghost in sneakers.

No exploring. No touching. No speaking unless spoken to.

It’s safer that way.

He might be kind. He might be trying. But I don’t trust “might be.”

I trust silence.

I trust shadows.

I trust staying out of the way.

Besides, what are we even doing here?

I’m not his problem. I’m just a mistake with legs. A memory he can’t quite scrub off his windshield.

Still, sometimes I wonder if he notices. The way I rearrange my footsteps to avoid his.

The way I breathe quieter when I hear him in the hallway.

And then sometimes—when I hear him pacing in his office late at night—I wonder if maybe… he’s lost too.

FEDDIE

She hasn't said more than four sentences to me in the past 2 weeks.

None of them were questions.

She doesn’t ask why I brought her here. Or what I expect. Or how long she’s supposed to stay.

She just nods. Smiles when she remembers. And disappears when I enter the room.

Like she’s apologizing for existing.

She moves like smoke. Soft. Quiet. Gone before I can say a word.

For the first three days, I thought she might just be resting. But then I started noticing the small things. The tea mug that was clean and warm. The folded dishtowel. The plate in the sink that wasn’t there before.

She was here. But not really.

It’s like living with a ghost who’s afraid of being noticed.

Every time I try to say something, she disappears. She doesn’t slam doors. Doesn’t stomp. She just... evaporates.

And this bothers me more than it should.

I’ve dealt with silent women before. Women who gave me the cold shoulder. Who weaponized quiet.

But this is different.

She’s not trying to punish me.

She’s trying to survive me.

The way she tiptoes through the house, like the floor has rules I never told her.

The way she clutches her notebook like it’s a shield.

The way she tenses every time she hears the front door unlock, like she’s waiting for someone else—something worse—to walk through it.

I caught her once.

Not caught like guilty. Just… saw her.

She was standing in the kitchen, barefoot, eating a banana like it might turn into a bomb if she peeled it wrong.

I didn’t say anything.

She didn’t either.

She just gave me a startled glance, mumbled something about “being done,” and scurried out.

I stood there for a full minute, holding my car keys like an i***t.

She’s here. But she isn’t.

And I keep asking myself—what am I supposed to do with a woman who doesn’t even know who she is?

I brought her here because I thought it was the right thing to do.

Because I saw her in that hospital bed, fragile and alone, and something cracked in me.

Not pity. Not guilt. Just... something ancient. Like a promise I didn’t know I’d made.

But now?

Now I don’t know how to reach her.

I don’t know if I should try.

There’s a question behind her silence, though. I see it in the way she flinches when I enter a room, how she avoids eye contact, like she’s waiting for something to explode.

Maybe I scare her.

God, I hope not.

So I do what I know—I give her space. I leave the lights on in the hallway in case she’s afraid of the dark. I put food in the fridge I think she might like. I tiptoe around my own house.

I don’t know how to fix this.

But I know one thing.

I don’t want her to leave.

I don’t know why. But the thought of this house without her—without her quiet presence, her ghost steps, her cautious eyes—it unsettles me.

She’s become part of the silence now.

One night, a week after she moved in, I came home late. The lights were off. The kitchen smelled like she had just made toast.

And there she was—standing by the counter in her oversized hoodie and socks, one hand on the fridge door, frozen mid-thought.

We both paused.

She didn’t bolt this time.

And I didn’t speak.

We just... stood there. Two strangers, stuck in the same moment. Not sure what came next.

But in that silence, something shifted.

I don’t know if it was her eyes. Or mine.

But it felt like the beginning of something neither of us had signed up for.