This house is no place for a child.

It is too old, too tired. The wallpaper curls at the edges and the floorboards groan, surrendering to the weight of time. The air is wet, cold, and smells like things in darkness grows.

But now, there is you.

You arrive wrapped in cotton, cradled in arms that are trembling from exhaustion, or love, or both. Your father hesitates at the threshold, shifting his grip like he isn’t sure how to hold you, like you might slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. Your mother leans against him, spent but smiling, her gaze lingering on the peeling walls, warped carpets, and the too-small bassinet waiting in the centre of the room.

You don’t belong here.

I do.

But not you.

You stir in your bassinet, half-open eyes inspecting the world around you. You stare up at your mother and father smiling, and they smile back.

But you aren’t looking at them.

Your hand reaches up, and your tiny fingers curl in the air, grasping at nothing.

And I feel it.

The first pull.

It is not dramatic. It is not loud. It is quiet in the way gravity is quiet—constant, unnoticed, inevitable. It tethers me to you in a way I don’t understand, in a way I don’t want to understand.

I was here before you, but now this house is yours.

And I, in some unspoken way, am yours too.

You haven’t done anything to deserve this place. Please don’t blame yourself for what’s to come.