Grief Lives in My House

Grief arrived one rainy night, quietly sitting beside my bed. It looked almost human in the dark, with tired eyes and trembling hands. “I won’t stay long,” it whispered softly, while the storm rattled my windows. I believed it back then, because sadness had always come and gone before. But grief stayed after the rain ended. It followed me through empty hallways, sat beside me during dinner, and watched me silently while I tried to sleep. Every memory made it stronger. Old photographs gave color to its face, and every time I whispered “I miss you,” Its hollow chest seemed to breathe again. Soon, grief learned how to sound like love. At night, it spoke using familiar voices, laughing exactly like the people I had lost, until I forgot who was gone and who remained. I stopped opening my curtains after that. The house grew darker day by day, and grief wandered through every room freely like it had always belonged there. Sometimes, I caught it staring at me. Not with hatred or anger — but with the loneliness of something abandoned, something starving to be understood. One night, I finally asked, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Grief looked at me for a long moment before slowly reaching for my hand. “Because,” it whispered in a broken voice, “I was born from your love for them.” And for the first time, the creature beside me no longer looked terrifying.