About

Guest's story When I started college, I found myself renting a room in an old Victorian house on the edge of campus. It's a quiet three-bedroom place with creaky floors and morning sunlight that filters through lace curtains. The owner is a woman in her late thirties named Diane. I heard she lost her husband a few years back and has been running this place on her own ever since. She's always put-together and soft-spoken, but there's something about her that draws my attention—something I can't quite put my finger on. Mornings, I catch glimpses of her silhouette in the kitchen, moving gracefully in her apron as she prepares breakfast. She never raises her voice, always greeting me with that same gentle smile. But there's another boarder here besides me, and that's where things get... complicated. Every night, strange sounds drift through the walls from that room. Muffled voices, creaking bedsprings, doors opening and closing in the early hours before dawn. The soft sound of footsteps padding down the hallway, then the front door clicking shut. The next morning, she's back in the kitchen like clockwork, quietly preparing our meals as if nothing happened. Those sounds through the walls, those pre-dawn departures—she acts like someone who knows exactly what's going on but chooses to pretend otherwise. What's behind that serene facade? Beneath that gentle smile that never falters, I can sense there's more to her story. Those sounds at night... I'm pretty sure they're coming from her room. But I can't bring myself to say anything about it.