Ada

My hand was burning, but there was no scratch. On my bedroom

blanket, I saw fine black hairs slowly disappearing.

And the painting in front of me: a black cat staring at me.

Ada certainly didn't remember anything, but their absence

must have hurt her—like the invisible scratch on my hand.

Only I remained. And Ada, the fish, and a house angrier by

the moment.

Everywhere was quiet. But not an ordinary quiet. The silence

that remains after someone leaves—you feel their absence, but there's nothing

you can do.

I went to the hallway. The sound of preparing dishes came

from the kitchen, but the light in the hallway didn't suggest night. Maybe it

was evening. Maybe Ada was preparing an afternoon snack. Or perhaps she had

started dinner early.

When I reached the kitchen, breakfast was set on the table.

But hadn't we already had dinner? Time had slipped away from me. What day was

it? What time was it?

The animal food bowls weren't in the kitchen. No floating

hairs in the air. The strip of light in the middle of the kitchen was empty.

Breakfast was simpler than previous days. Ada tried to smile at me, but she was

sad.

There was less noise in the house, but you felt more

emptiness.

Ada's hair was still a little wet—she had clearly

showered—but she wasn't energetic.

"How strange. I feel like I had a terrible dream last

night, but I don't remember it." Ada said

"Then how can you tell it was bad?" Nooshin said

"Because ever since I woke up, I've felt awful. And I'm

sure I had a bad dream."

"Sorry, I'm terribly tired today. It's as if I have so

much to do, but when I look, I see I have nothing left. Like I've done

everything. Have you ever had this feeling—that something is missing from your

life, but you don't know what?" Ada said

I couldn't answer, because I felt the same: an emptiness

with no name.

"I want to dream, Nooshin. I really want to dream—and

remember." Ada said

A tear fell from her eyes onto the table, and slowly, the

table began to darken.

I quickly grabbed a napkin and wiped. It wouldn't clean.

This time, Ada didn't even notice the blackening.

A silence stretched between us.

I felt the time had come—not to enter Ada's memory, but to

tell the truth. But how? This was her shelter, her safe zone. She would think I

was crazy.

I smiled faintly and said, "What this house does to

people…" Nooshin said

Ada smiled gently—not out of joy, but like someone who had

known this for a long time.

Rain began to fall again, but drizzling.

Ada stared out the window and continued:

"You know, the day I came here, I was so tired. Hoping

for a new beginning. You know my life story better than anyone. After eight

years of trust and deep partnership, ending suddenly—right when I thought I was

at the peak of my love story—I took a hard hit."

She lowered her head, staring at her teacup.

"I had to take refuge somewhere with no memories. I had

to weave my separated threads anew. I was alone—completely alone—on a path that

was totally foreign."

"At first, I thought the house was helping me

nicely."

She paused, as if both dissatisfied and unwilling to ignore

the house's kindness.

Ada knew the house was listening. She continued:

"The sounds from outside grew less and less. Gradually,

my friends stopped coming. You know, it's not close to the city. Eventually,

even the few who came didn't stay long. It was as if the house didn't like

them."

"Little by little, memories and dreams vanished more

quietly than I could notice. And one day, I realized I had everything I wanted

here. I couldn't remember who I was outside this place."

"Outside this place, there was pain—but you were

real." Nooshin said

Suddenly, a long thunderbolt struck the backyard. Ada,

startled by the loud thunder, went to the window, checked the lock, and pulled

the curtain.

I could hear her breathing, but I felt no fear. I had to

understand something, but I didn't remember where to start.

I looked at the ceiling where the crack no longer existed,

then at the black spot on the table, and said to Ada:

"This house feeds on your pain."

"Memories—even painful ones—are better off

forgotten." Ada said

"But what if they are healed?" Nooshin said

"Then the memories change. And if memories change, you

are no longer yourself." Ada said

A strange silence formed between us. Everything was quiet.

The house seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"Right now, you are not yourself either."

"You survived in this house, but you didn't live."

"Do you know why you don't remember your dreams

anymore? Because a person who forgets their dreams gradually forgets the

future." Nooshin said

Only the rain was audible. Though the windows were closed,

the house had grown cold. It understood that its owner's turn had come.

With each thunderclap, the windowpanes seemed thinner. The

ceiling seemed lower. The air grew heavy.

Ada moved toward the stairs—as if something from within was

moving her like a wind-up doll. She said quietly, "Follow me."

Her walking was not normal. Short, slow steps, as if she

were floating. Her long dress dragged on the floor. I couldn't see her feet.

What was happening?

If she wanted to show me her memory, I wasn't ready this

time. I was scared for Ada. But Ada was ready, and nothing could stop her.

But why was she going toward the stairs? I saw memories in

the aquarium.

"Ada, are you okay?"

"Follow me." Ada said

She was going to the basement.

I was afraid of that floor. And Ada went.

My feet weakened on the first step. A dry voice from below

began to sing—an old song familiar to me, but I didn't know it. The sound of a

dusty music box.

"Finally, what, Nooshin? She's your friend. Whatever

she is, you have to help her. Are you scared? Have you forgotten? The house

feeds on your fear."

But what if the person downstairs wasn't Ada?

Headless bodies and strange questions ran through my brain

like a broken tape.

My whole body was frozen. I looked down from above. The

yellow light warmed my heart—at least it wasn't dark. Step by step, I went

down.

With each step closer to the basement, the light seemed to

dim.

Ada stood in front of the bookshelf, holding the exact book

I had taken upstairs. And now I was sure I had taken it up—but it had returned

to its shelf.

Ada looked at me and said:

"Look here. This place is full of forgotten memories.

They smell of decay, but they don't know they're dead."

She began to read from the book—something forbidden on that

floor.

"A romantic play. Can you believe it? I wrote it

myself. We were supposed to perform it together. We were supposed to blow up

the stage. But…"

She took an old box from one of the shelves and opened it.

Cinema and museum tickets from places we went together. Flowers he had picked

for me—even those he had broken from blooming trees and placed in my hair.

Flight tickets from trips I had planned for months, taken together. And look—a

ticket for a flight we missed. She laughed out loud.

But…

She went to the sculptures.

"He made these. But…"

And pity the "buts."

"He could never finish anything. Even his sculptures

are unfinished."

"So many other things. So many other things. But you

know—"

Ada lowered her voice, as if she didn't want the house to

hear.

"Every time I remembered something, something down here

disappeared."

I had just realized why some shelves were empty—like missing

teeth.

Ada continued:

"First, his photos went. Then his letters. Then the

last recording of his voice left my mind."

She smiled strangely.

"But I hid some things here that even the house doesn't

know about."

I felt we were no longer alone. Something in the darkness of

the basement—exactly where the light didn't reach—seemed to be watching us.

Waiting to conquer the darkest parts of Ada's memory.

I covered Ada's mouth. "Shh. It's listening to

us."

Ada laughed loudly.

"When everything ended, I learned lies well. I repeated

them to myself so often I believed them. Don't worry. The dark alleys of my

memory aren't so easily seen."

"This is all there was that you wanted to see, and it's

over." Ada said

But something was strange. Her sentence seemed odd.

I quickly went to the stairs leading to the second floor. In

front of the picture frames, something was strange. Between the two remaining

frames—which was Ada's? Neither was complete. The beach still had no sea. The

cake still had no candles.

I remembered Ada's sentence: "I learned lies

well."

The house had been playing me. The house had been lying to

me.

I began to sing. Exactly the same song Ada and her soulmate

used to listen to together.

The stairs under my feet seemed to tremble. Lights turned on

and off. Thunder and rain grew louder than before.

I went to the aquarium and sat in front of it. Though my

voice trembled, I continued. Shadows seemed to come and go inside the house.

Ada was crying loudly from downstairs.

The fish huddled in a corner of the aquarium.

The sound of a window breaking sent a strange chill through

my body. But I couldn't pull back. I was on the right path.

The house fed on bad memories and was afraid of good ones. A

good memory connects a person to life—meaning a desire for real life. The house

couldn't keep that.

Ultimately, the conclusion: Memories in this house are

doomed to be forgotten. That was the house's primary law.

Suddenly, the aquarium water turned dark. Not like a light

turning off—like sinking into depth.

Everywhere was dark.

Then the lights turned on.

"Surprise!"

The sound of laughter, blinking lights around the ceiling.

Balloons floating. The smell of sugar and cream. A house full of people.

But something in the air was wrong. Always, just before a

collapse, the air seems a bit unreal.

Ada wore a pale pink dress. In the memory, she seemed more

alive. Her hair was shorter, black.

John stood by the window, but he didn't look happy.

Whispers went around that tonight, right after blowing out

the candles, John would propose to Ada. But Ada had realized John wasn't her

person. So, within her smiles, you could see anxiety. Still, she had no choice.

They couldn't stay friends forever—they had to get married. But for John,

marriage felt like an end.

John didn't have commitment issues. On the contrary, he was

very committed and loyal. He feared endings—not just the end of a relationship,

but the end of everything.

Some people are like that. They are addicted to beginnings,

to possibilities, to "maybes." Because as long as something isn't

complete, they can continue. But as soon as they see signs of completion, fear

takes over.

These are half-finished people.

Half-read books, half-abandoned projects, always-unpacked

suitcases. He never set his watch accurately because exact time gave him a

sense of ending.

Ada thought she had cured John of this fear over the years.

But she didn't know that all those years, John had just been accompanying

her—watching. Even when a trip ended, it was Ada who started and finished it.

John was just a good travel companion.

Now, marriage made everything real, fixed, finished. John

had always lived in possibilities. Reality had limits, but possibilities were

infinite.

What should he do? He couldn't even not get married, because

this time Ada had said seriously: if they didn't marry, everything was over.

John didn't even have the courage to end the relationship.

Everyone began counting down. Right when Ada was about to

make a wish, John walked out the door.

Ada seemed ready for that sound, but she didn't believe it.

Without wanting to, she didn't let others hear her heart break. Without making

a wish, she cut the cake.

Suddenly, time stopped. Guests stood motionless. Ada stared

at me, her eyes full of tears, seeing me in the black-and-white crowd. I could

do nothing. I couldn't stop John. I couldn't erase what had been from Ada's

mind.

All these years, everyone had left, blaming clichés. Some

had even imagined John cheating. But Ada saw the reality behind John after the

door closed.

With a trembling voice, she said: "No one is guilty in

this story. I am the guilty one. I knew his pain for years and continued. Years

trying to change him—not realizing he loved his pain more than me."

"Ada, forgive yourself. Please. You still have a path

ahead." Nooshin said

She stared at her cake—a taste she no longer wanted to try;

at birthdays she would no longer celebrate.

"No matter how differently you behaved, John would have

left. He was never meant to stay. Neither of you is guilty. It's just that from

here on, your destinations differ." Nooshin said

I went to the cake, my hands trembling with exhaustion. I

placed her birthday candle on the cake with hesitation and lit it.

"First, forgive yourself—for everything that happened

these years. And now, hope for the future. Make a wish." Nooshin said

No change in her expression. She seemed dead.

"Ada—someone who makes a wish hasn't given up

yet." Nooshin said

My heart was in chaos. What if she didn't forgive? This

memory had inevitably changed. But what if she didn't?

I began to count. Each moment, my chest grew heavier.

"Three… two… one…"