The agent didn't tell them the price until the drive home, and she said it like an apology. Sixty-one thousand. Eleven rooms, a wraparound porch. Mara signed before Daniel finished reading. That first night they slept on a mattress in the parlor. Above them, a floorboard creaked. Then again, slow and even, like someone pacing the room overhead. They were alone in the house.

Daniel turned on his phone flashlight and headed for the stairs. "It's just the house settling," he said, but his voice shook. Mara followed. At the top of the steps, the pacing stopped the second their feet hit the landing. Every door up there was shut. They didn't remember closing them.

Daniel opened the nearest door. An empty bedroom, bare floor, one window. But the floorboards in the center were worn smooth in a long oval, exactly the shape of someone walking the same path for years. The wood was warm. He stepped onto it without meaning to.

The second his feet touched the worn path, Daniel started walking. He couldn't stop. Back and forth, back and forth, the same oval. Mara screamed his name and grabbed his arm, and only then did he break free, gasping. "I felt them," he said. "All the ones who walked here. They're still walking."

Mara dragged Daniel down the stairs and out to the car. They drove off and didn't stop until the city. Months later a letter came, no stamp, their own address as the sender. Inside, one line in faded ink: "You forgot to walk your path. The house is keeping your spot warm." Daniel's feet started moving on their own.