The Willow House

The train rattled along the tracks, carving a path through hills and rivers, through forgotten villages and nameless towns. Inside, the traveler sat by the window, his gaze unfocused, his mind adrift. He had no permanent home, no final destination—only the motion of the train, the quiet solitude of travel, and the occasional stops in unfamiliar places where he could lose himself for a while.

That evening, he stepped off at a town whose name he hadn’t bothered to read. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth and woodsmoke. It was small, quaint, wrapped in an eerie quietness that settled deep into his bones.

He found lodging at The Willow House, a guest house on the outskirts of town, run by a woman named Laila. She was striking—dark-haired, with an old-world beauty that belonged to another time. There was something graceful yet lonely about her, as though she were waiting for something.

“You travel alone?” she asked, her voice soft yet knowing.

He nodded. “Always.”

She smiled. “Then you’ll find peace here.”

And for the first time in years, he did. The town had a slow, unhurried rhythm, and in Laila’s guest house, he felt something unfamiliar—comfort. She would bring him tea in the evenings, sit with him by the fire, listening to his stories with a quiet intensity. He found himself watching her, drawn to the way candlelight danced against her skin, the way her fingers lingered on old books as if they held secrets only she could read.

But the townsfolk were different. Their warmth cooled the moment he mentioned where he was staying. The shopkeeper’s smile faded. The bartender hesitated before pouring his drink. The old woman at the bakery pressed a loaf of bread into his hands and muttered, “Don’t stay too long, son.”

He asked, but no one would say why.

One night, as the wind howled outside, he found Laila standing by the window, staring into the dark.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

She turned, smiling that same wistful smile. “Just the past.”

Something in her voice sent a shiver down his spine.

Later, in the dead of night, he woke to a noise—a soft creaking, like footsteps on wood. Slipping out of bed, he followed the sound down the dimly lit hall, past rooms that should have been empty but felt filled with unseen presence. The house felt different now—heavier, as if it carried stories too painful to be spoken.

Then he saw it.

A door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.

Inside, the room was untouched, layered in dust. A single suitcase sat in the corner, worn and forgotten. He stepped closer, and his breath caught in his throat. Inside the suitcase were clothes—shirts, coats, scarves—all belonging to men. Different sizes, different styles, but all worn, all abandoned.

And beside the suitcase, a faded photograph.

It was Laila. And a man. A different man. Holding hands, smiling.

The date on the photograph was last year.

His stomach twisted. He stepped back, his heart hammering against his ribs. How many men had come before him? How many travelers, seeking shelter in a town that tried to warn them?

A floorboard creaked behind him.

He turned.

Laila stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. In her hands, she held a knife.

“You should have never opened that door,” she whispered.

The wind outside howled, but inside The Willow House, all was silent.

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