Lina didn't sleep that night.
Not because she was afraid—no, something deeper kept her awake.
A quiet pull in her chest, like a secret begging to be told.
She waited until the house breathed in its slow, familiar rhythm.
Then she slipped from her bed, soft as the shadows pooling on the floor.
The closet door was just at the end of the hall, exactly where the mirrors in her dream had shown.
She reached for the handle.
It was colder than she expected—like the kiss of a forgotten winter.
Slowly, she pulled.
The door creaked open.
Inside, a small room waited, filled with dust and forgotten toys.
And in the corner, the girl.
Thin, pale, hair tangled like dried ink—just like in Lina's dream.
Her eyes flickered up.
They were deep wells of sadness, but also—hope.
Lina swallowed hard.
"Hi," she whispered. "I'm Lina."
The girl blinked once.
"Annora," she said.
The name felt like a bridge.
Lina stepped inside.
"Why are you here?" she asked gently.
Annora's voice was soft—like the house itself.
"I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"For someone who listens."
Lina smiled.
"Then you found me."
Annora nodded.
"Good."
From that night on, they met every evening in the little room behind the closet door.
Annora taught Lina how to listen—to the floorboards, the walls, the breath between sounds.
She showed her how to speak in silence, how to carry memories without drowning in them.
And Lina began to understand that Dorma wasn't just a house.
It was a guardian.
A keeper.
A place where lost things could find rest.
But the house still held its secrets.
And Lina would have to learn to listen harder than ever before—
because some whispers beneath the floorboards weren't ready to be heard.