Labyrinthine Apparition

I find myself in a building that resists definition—part university, part manor house, a place with too many corridors and too much history. The air has the weight of things that have happened: lectures delivered, punishments dealt, secrets whispered in dim-lit alcoves. I move through it without purpose beyond avoidance. Not running, not hiding exactly, but staying unseen. If I hear footsteps, I slip into a side passage. If voices drift down a staircase, I take another route.

This has been going on for some time. I don’t know how long. The building folds in on itself, offering new rooms, closing off old ones. Once, I swear I find a door that wasn’t there before, a grand wooden thing with a lion’s head knocker, though I don’t stop to test if it opens.

Then, a shift. A boy. He appears near where I’ve taken cover, a slender silhouette caught in the dust-dappled light. He pauses as though listening, or sensing something beyond his understanding. A voice—female, firm—calls a name from another room.

My name.

The boy reacts, startled. He glances toward the sound, then back to where I stand, concealed but not hidden enough. And in the instant our eyes meet, I know.

The feeling hits like a gut-punch: déjà vu, only deeper. Like I’ve lived this before, like this moment has been waiting to happen. I remember the too-tight collar of my sweater, the strange prickle on my neck, the certainty that someone was watching.

The voice calls again. The boy hesitates—half a second, maybe less—then bolts, vanishing into the depths of the house.

And I am left standing, breath shallow, skin cold. Because I know what just happened.

I was the watcher. I was the watched.

Which means this has happened before. And it will happen again.