It was raining inside the house again. Not water. Just the sound.

I remember waking up to rhythm—a soft patter against glass, but none of the windows were open. None of them were wet. I checked every room. Dry. Dusty. Cold. Yet the sound followed, echoing differently in each hallway.

It wasn’t until I entered the kitchen that I heard the humming.

Woman’s voice, almost like she was singing to herself. No words. Just a melody which felt older than language. I couldn’t find her. The sound was coming from the sink. Not from above it. From within.

The drain was darker than usual. Like looking down into an abandoned well.

I leaned closer.

That’s when the humming stopped.

And she whispered:

“I hope you didn’t drink the tea.”

My hands were trembling. My mouth was dry. I had drunk something earlier that night. But, couldn’t remember what. Or when. Or why.

When I looked up, the kitchen window showed nothing but fog. And in the center of fog, the outline of someone watching from the other side. Not moving. Not blinking. Just breathing. With my face.