I stood in the doorway, my breath fogging in the icy air, staring at the trail of footprints in the fresh snow. They started from inside my house—right at the threshold where I now stood—and led outward, disappearing into the pale morning light. The snow had stopped falling just minutes ago, and the layer was pristine except for the steps. Which meant whoever—or whatever—had made them was here only moments before.

But I hadn’t been outside. And I lived alone.

A cold dread crept up my spine, sharper than the chill of the air. I slowly stepped back into the house and closed the door, locking it this time. My mind raced as I replayed the night before. I’d gone to bed around midnight, dead tired after a long day. Nothing unusual, no signs of anyone else in the house. I distinctly remembered locking the doors before turning off the lights.

Yet someone had been here. Someone who left without me noticing. Or worse—someone who was still inside.

I turned back toward the hallway, my ears straining for any sound. The house was silent, but too silent, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. I grabbed the fireplace poker from its stand—a ridiculous weapon, I knew, but it was the closest thing I could find. Slowly, I began checking the rooms, one by one.

The living room was empty. So was the kitchen. The bathroom door creaked as I nudged it open with the poker, but there was nothing inside. The silence was maddening, broken only by the sound of my own breathing and the occasional creak of the floorboards underfoot. Each empty room brought equal parts relief and unease. If there was no one here, then who left the footprints? And how had they gotten in?

I made my way upstairs, my heart pounding as I approached my bedroom. The door was ajar, just as I’d left it—but now, it felt ominous, like a trap. I pushed it open, ready to swing the poker at the slightest movement. But again, nothing. My bed was still unmade from when I’d gotten up, the curtains drawn tight against the pale morning light.

And then I saw it.

On my nightstand, where I’d left my glass of water, sat something that hadn’t been there before: a single black feather. Long and glossy, it gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the curtains. I picked it up carefully, turning it over in my hands. It was unnaturally smooth, with a strange warmth to it that felt out of place in my cold room. A shiver ran through me.

I hadn’t heard a bird all morning.

The sudden knock at the front door made me jump so violently I nearly dropped the poker. The sound echoed through the house, loud and deliberate. Someone was there. Someone who knew I was here.

I crept downstairs, clutching the poker tightly. Through the frosted glass of the front door, I could make out a shadowy figure standing perfectly still on the other side. My breath hitched as I hesitated, every instinct screaming at me not to open it.

The figure knocked again, slower this time. Deliberate. The sound was almost rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to move. I reached the door and opened it a crack, keeping the chain latched.

But there was no one there.

The footprints in the snow were gone. The yard was untouched, pristine, as if the snow had fallen all over again. But as I looked down, I saw something new—a small object placed neatly on the welcome mat.

Another black feather. And beneath it, a folded piece of paper.

With trembling hands, I reached down and picked up the paper. The feather slipped from my grasp and landed in the snow. I unfolded the note, the words scrawled in a handwriting I didn’t recognize.

**“We’ll come back when you’re ready to remember.”**

The snow around me was silent again, heavier somehow. And deep inside, a part of me stirred. A part of me I’d thought I’d forgotten.