I left my daughter with my parents during a business trip. Two days later, she disappeared at the mall. My parents said, “we only looked away for a moment.” Ten years later, while cleaning out my grandmother’s house, I found a strange vent in the wall. I leaned in and heard a little girl humming from inside.

I backed away as the dresser slid fully back into position on its own.

The house sighed.

Satisfied.

I reported it. Of course I did. The police came. Contractors came. They tore open the wall.

There was nothing there.

No vent.

No cavity.

Just solid wood and insulation and decades-old beams.

They told me grief could manifest in auditory hallucinations. They used words like closure and acceptance.

I sold the house.

But sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and the walls settle, I hear a child humming.

Not from inside my home.

From inside the walls.

And I know—deep down—that the house didn’t just keep my daughter.

It learned her song.