The house stood at the edge of town — ordinary in the daylight, but hollow in the quiet hours after dusk. The neighbors never spoke about it, though sometimes they left flowers by the gate. Not out of respect… but out of guilt. It had been years since the family died there. A mother, a father, and their two children — a home once full of laughter and noise. No one remembered who found them first, only that every window had been locked from the inside. When the new owners arrived, they said it didn’t feel empty. The air was cold but heavy, like it was filled with unspoken words. The dining table was still set for four — plates untouched, dust lying perfectly around them as if no one had dared disturb their last meal. At night, the lights in the hallway flickered — only the hallway, always the same one. Footsteps could be heard faintly above, but the attic was sealed shut. Once, the mother woke to the smell of something warm and sweet, like breakfast cooking. When she went to check, the kitchen was cold — yet the chairs were pulled out, as if someone had just sat down. Days passed. She started talking to them — softly, gently, like she could still feel them listening. She’d whisper, “I know you didn’t want to leave.” And then, one night, her husband woke to find her sitting at the table, smiling faintly, four plates set again — this time freshly cleaned. There were no signs of struggle. The next morning, the neighbors saw the lights on inside, all four figures sitting at the table again. The house looked alive once more. But when they peered closer through the window, only one thing was clear — the family had finally stopped waiting.