It was always the same. The peeling wallpaper hung like dying skin, the sour stench of stale beer thick in the air, and the distant shouting, muffled yet sharp enough to pierce my chest. My stomach churned as dread took root, curling and twisting like a vine around my ribs. I knew what was coming.

"Emily!"

My mother's voice ripped through the silence like a serrated blade, shrill and furious. "Get out here!"

I froze. Even within the confines of the dream, my body responded to the memory, paralyzed by the fear that once ruled me. I wanted to move—every fiber of my being screamed at me to run—but my legs stayed rooted to the floor, heavy as iron.

"Don't make me call you again!"

The floorboards creaked under my bare feet as I stumbled out of my room, the air heavy with the smell of cigarettes and something sour. The tiny living room was already shrouded in stale smoke, the haze clinging to the dim light from the television. My mother was sprawled on the couch, a faded robe hanging off her shoulders, her hair a wild nest of tangles.

A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the coffee table next to an overflowing ashtray, the butts piled like discarded bones. She didn't even glance at me, her eyes glued to the screen, but her voice cut through me like glass.

"The dishes ain't gonna wash themselves. And when you're done, the floor needs scrubbin'. It's filthy, just like you."

The words hit hard, sharper than they should have, even though I'd heard them before. I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to stay quiet. Talking back only made it worse. My hands trembled as I moved through the room, collecting the dirty plates and glasses scattered across every surface. Some were crusted with food so old it had started to stink.

The smell of it turned my stomach, a sharp twist of hunger and nausea, but I didn't dare complain. I carried the pile to the sink, stacking it beside the greasy mound already waiting there.

The soap was cheap and watered down, barely producing any suds as I scrubbed. My fingers burned under the scalding water, but I didn't dare turn it down—she hated it when the dishes weren't spotless. Every scrape of a dish and splash of water felt louder than it should have, like a timer ticking down in the silence.

"Don't forget to mop," she barked without looking up, her tone sharp. "I ain't havin' no roaches in here 'cause you're too lazy to clean."

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered, my voice so low it barely counted as a response.

I worked as quickly as I could, but it was never fast enough. My hands moved on autopilot, the rhythm of washing and rinsing numbing me to everything but the ache in my fingers. The mop and bucket waited in the corner, their chipped and worn surfaces a testament to how many times I'd scrubbed this floor.

When I was done with the dishes, I grabbed the mop, the handle rough against my palms. The motion was repetitive, almost soothing if it hadn't been for the weight of her gaze, flickering toward me from time to time. Even without looking, I could feel her scrutiny, the way her presence pressed down on me like an unseen force.

She muttered something under her breath as a commercial came on, her sharp, joyless laughter cutting through the room.

The thought crept in, unbidden and fragile: What would it feel like to leave?

To pack a bag and run, to step outside and never look back? I tried to imagine the air feeling clean, untainted by smoke or her voice, but the thought dissolved just as quickly as it formed. The weight of her presence crushed it before it could take root.

"Emily!" she barked again, her voice dragging me out of my thoughts. "What're you daydreamin' for? Get me another drink!"

I abandoned the mop, moving quickly to the counter to pour vodka into the same glass she'd been nursing all night. My hands shook as I brought it to her, careful not to spill. Her eyes flicked up to mine, narrowing.

"You're so useless," she muttered, snatching the glass from me.

Then the fire began.

It started in the corner, small and flickering, almost unnoticeable against the dull glow of the television. But it spread fast, crawling up the walls with an unnatural hunger. The smoke thickened, turning acrid and suffocating, but she didn't move.

She just laughed.

"See what you've done now?" she said, her voice distorting, deepening into something monstrous. Her face twisted, the shadows playing tricks with her features. "This is all your fault, Emily. You deserve this."

"No!" I screamed, the word tearing from my throat, raw and desperate. The flames leaped higher, roaring like a living beast, swallowing the walls, the ceiling, everything. I tried to move, but my feet were stuck, the linoleum beneath me turning sticky, holding me in place.

The heat was unbearable, but she stood untouched, her robe flaring out like wings of smoke. Her laughter grew louder, mingling with the roar of the fire, until it drowned out everything else.

"You'll never escape me," she hissed, her figure towering over me as the flames closed in.

The fire surged, and I clawed at the floor, desperate to free myself, but it was no use. The room twisted and blurred, the heat suffocating. The fire didn't burn—it consumed, pulling me into its icy depths.

Her voice was the last thing I heard, echoing louder and louder: "You're worthless. You'll never escape."

I woke with a start, gasping for air like I'd been underwater. My chest heaved, my heart pounding so hard it drowned out every other sound. The room around me was dark, the glow of my bedside lamp the only reassurance that I wasn't there anymore.

Sweat clung to my skin, making the quilt heavy and stifling, but I pulled it tighter, grounding myself in its familiar weight. My books sat stacked neatly on the nightstand, their presence an anchor to this reality.

I wasn't in that house. She wasn't here.

"She's gone," I whispered to myself, the words shaky and unconvincing. "She can't hurt me anymore."

But the echoes of her voice lingered, acidic and cruel, as if the nightmare had left something behind. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, clutching the quilt around me like a shield. My hands trembled as I reached for the nearest book, flipping through its pages in a desperate bid to chase away the lingering fear.

The words blurred together, unreadable. Frustration bubbled up, hot and bitter, and I shoved the book aside. My gaze turned to the window, to the soft silver of moonlight painting the trees outside. Each creak of the house made my breath hitch, my frayed nerves leaping at every small noise.

For a fleeting moment, I thought about waking Mrs. Blake. Her steady presence had always been comforting. But how could I explain it? How could I put into words the way my mother's shadow clung to me, even now, so far from that house?

Instead, I whispered into the silence, "You're safe. You're home."

I repeated it over and over, a quiet mantra that felt fragile yet vital. My fingers clutched the quilt like a lifeline, its softness a reminder of the kindness that now surrounded me.

When the first rays of dawn broke through the curtains, I was still awake, my body exhausted but my mind restless. The nightmare had left its mark, as it always did, but the familiar sounds of the Blake household brought a flicker of relief.

The clatter of dishes, the soft hum of Lily's voice, Sam's laughter—it was enough to remind me that this was real.

The fire wasn't.

Her voice wasn't.

I stood on shaky legs, the quilt still draped around me, and inhaled deeply.

The night had tried to pull me under, but it hadn't won. Not this time.

I wasn't in that house anymore. And no matter how loud the memories screamed, I wouldn't let them drag me back.

The warm, inviting smell of coffee and toast drifted through the house, mingling with the faint scent of pine from the candle Mrs. Blake always kept on the counter. It was a smell that usually made me feel safe, but this morning, it barely registered. I lingered at the edge of the kitchen, hesitating. My feet felt heavy, as if the weight of last night's nightmare had followed me into the day.

Mrs. Blake sat at the table, her posture relaxed as she flipped through the morning newspaper. The faint creak of her chair and the occasional rustle of paper were the only sounds, but the peaceful quiet felt fragile, like it might shatter if I moved wrong. When she looked up and saw me standing there, her face broke into a warm, easy smile that I wasn't sure I deserved.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said, her voice light and cheerful, as if willing the day to start fresh. "How'd you sleep?"

I shuffled my feet, my hands twisting nervously in front of me. My gaze dropped to the scuffed floorboards beneath me. "Not great," I mumbled, the words barely louder than a whisper.

Her expression softened, the smile fading into something more concerned. She set the newspaper aside, folding it neatly before patting the chair next to her. "Come sit with me," she said gently. "What's on your mind?"

The kitchen felt too quiet now, the kind of silence that made the truth harder to avoid. Slowly, I crossed the room and sank into the chair, tracing the edge of the worn wooden table with my fingers. The surface was smooth from years of use, the varnish faded in places where hands like mine had worried at it.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the knot of fear tightening in my chest. "I... I had a nightmare last night," I finally admitted, my voice trembling. "About my mom. And the fire."

Her hand rested over mine, warm and steady, anchoring me in the present. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, her tone soft but without a hint of pressure.

For a moment, I wasn't sure if I could. The words felt like jagged stones lodged in my throat. But there was something in the way she looked at me—patient, kind, like she'd hold the weight of my story if I let her—that made it easier to speak.

"It started in the old house," I began, my voice shaking. "Everything was... wrong. The walls felt alive, like they were watching me. And my mom—she was there, shouting at me. She kept saying horrible things, making me do chores, calling me useless and worthless. It felt so real, like I was really back there."

Her fingers tightened slightly over mine, a silent reassurance that she was listening.

"Then the fire started," I continued, my words tumbling out faster now. "It came out of nowhere and spread so fast. I couldn't move—I felt stuck, like the floor was pulling me down. And she just stood there, screaming that it was all my fault. That I deserved it."

The tears I'd been holding back spilled over, hot and unrelenting. My hands shook as I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white. "The flames were everywhere. I could feel the heat, but I couldn't get away. It was like I was trapped, like the fire wanted me too."

Mrs. Blake didn't say anything at first. She just wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that was soft but unyielding, like she was willing to hold every piece of my breaking heart. Her embrace felt like a barrier against the darkness, solid and steady in a way I didn't think I deserved but desperately needed.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that," she said softly, her breath warm against my hair. "Even in your dreams."

We stayed like that for a while, her hand rubbing slow circles on my back. The sound of the heater hummed faintly in the background, a steady rhythm that helped ease the chaos in my mind. When she finally pulled back, she cupped my face gently and looked me in the eye.

"Emily, listen to me," she said, her voice firm but kind. "None of the things your mom said to you—then or in that nightmare—are true. You're not worthless. You never were."

Her words hit me like a sudden gust of wind, unexpected and disarming. I sniffled and wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to process the warmth in her tone, the certainty.

"It just felt so real," I whispered, my voice cracking. "And even though she's gone, I still... I still hear her sometimes. Like her voice is stuck in my head, reminding me of every horrible thing she ever said."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her expression unwavering. "That's normal after everything you've been through," she said. "But you're not there anymore. You're here, and you're safe. And that voice—it doesn't have the power it used to. Not unless you let it."

"I know," I said quietly. "But it's hard."

"I can only imagine," she replied. "But I want you to know that I'm here for you. Always. If you ever want to talk—about anything—I'm here. And if the nightmares keep coming, we can find someone to help. Someone who knows how to help you work through these feelings."

I looked up at her, her face framed by the soft morning light streaming through the window. For the first time that morning, I felt like I could breathe again. The heaviness in my chest hadn't disappeared, but it had eased, like someone had loosened the rope holding me down.

"Thanks," I said softly, the word barely enough to hold all the gratitude I felt.

She smiled and brushed a strand of hair from my face, her touch light and reassuring. "That's all I ask," she said.

The rest of the morning passed quietly. The sounds of Lily and Sam waking up, their laughter and chatter filling the house, gave me something to focus on besides the lingering shadows of the nightmare. The smell of toast and coffee felt warmer now, more comforting.

Talking about the nightmare hadn't erased it, but it had taken away some of its power. For the first time, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, the past didn't have to define me forever. Maybe, with Mrs. Blake and this new life, I could start to leave some of those shadows behind.