THE HOUSE THAT REMEMBERS WRONG

The house did not appear on any map. Not old maps. Not new ones. Not even the ones people draw from memory when they swear they’ve been somewhere before. It stood where a road should have been. When they found it, the windows were open. The doors were unlocked. The rooms were clean. Too clean. No signs of struggle. No signs of dust. No signs of age. But every mirror in the house had been turned to face the wall. And every clock—every single one—had stopped at 3:17.