The silence that followed Ronald's revelation pressed in. I stood there, frozen. My arms clenched and released. My thoughts, pouring in nonstop.

  What should I do? What should I say? How do I cheer him up? I suck at talking! Maybe I'll play his favorite self-motivation songs? That should be fine, right? But what were the lyrics, again? Scrap that idea. Think another. After a solid silent minute. My mind still went blank. Why can't I think of anything? Empathy isn't my strength.

  I shook my head. No. Ma once told me, it wasn't about saying the right thing, it was about being there.

  My eyes darted between my trembling fingers and Ronald. I..I can do this.

  Not wasting a second, I stepped forward and drew him into an embrace. My thoughts were racing again.

  I'm not hugging him too tightly, am I? Oh! My heart! It's beating crazy fast. I hope Ronald doesn't hear it. Wait. Why is he so silent? He's alright, right?

  I turned my head slightly and noticed he didn't resist. He didn't flinch. He just sank into it, trembling, clinging to something solid in a house built from shadows and memories.

  My thoughts instantly stopped. Vision blurred. I hugged him tighter. None of my previous thoughts mattered anymore. I could only think of one thing:

  I'm here for you, Ronald.

  The thought pulsed silently as I closed my eyes, hoping it reached him beyond words.

  His hand clutched the back of my shirt. He held on like he needed proof I was real. The contact burned. Not hot, but heavy. His pain seeped through the fabric, raw and quiet, and settled somewhere inside my chest.

  Something broke loose in me. My vision warped. I blinked. The tears slipped free.

  "We'll get through this, Ronald," I whispered. "Together."

  He nodded against my shoulder. His grip tightened, not out of fear but resolve.

  We stayed like that for a while. The world felt quieter.

  When we finally parted, his smile was small, brittle, but it was real. "Thank you, Llyne."

  I smiled back. "Always, Ronald."

  But the corridor didn't let us rest.

  If anything, it welcomed the emotional lull, only to break it with something colder.

  The air was heavier now, every step drawing us deeper into a place that felt detached from time. Each portrait stared down with stories etched in its silence.

  Then... my gaze stopped.

  We froze.

  A painting.

  Of Isaac.

  My breath caught.

  Ronald's voice cracked with disbelief. "I-Isaac? Is that really him?"

  Ronald's hand tightened around mine. I looked down then at Ronald and nodded slowly. "It's his likeness… but there's something… off."

  And there was the eye. A mole. Right below his right eye. My stomach tightened.

  But Isaac didn't have one.

  My eyes narrowed.

  Wait. Why did I assume it's Isaac? Only dead people's portraits are here. Could this be Isaac's brother? No. He never mentioned one.

  Ronald's finger reached out, pressed, and trailed on the dates. "The date of death… It's scratched out."

  He leaned closer, brows furrowed. "Why did they erase the date?"

  "This is definitely getting creepier," I muttered. Weird. Is it only this painting or...? I swept a glance at the rest of the paintings. The hairs on my arms were standing on end. I'm curious, but I don't want to die for it.

  "I might wet my pants at this rate," Ronald muttered, hand over his eyes.

  "If it's any consolation," I said, trying to ground us both with levity, "I might join you in the pants-wetting department."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Ronald made a strained sound, and we moved on.

  Ronald covered the right lane; I did the left. I kept tracing the paintings with my fingers, as if it were my life task. As we walked deeper, the faces in the portraits grew more personal, more familiar, each one dragging another shard of memory to the surface.

  I've never seen them in person before, but I definitely saw them in Ma's picture. I squinted at the paintings. A memory surfaced.

  It was a Saturday morning, an hour before twelve. Peaceful. Suspicious. Especially for an Asian family.

  I was lazing on the couch, daydreaming, my specialty. My sis? Not home. No one knew where she went. Ma was in her bedroom. Always hiding in there for an hour, doing something we kids never knew.

  That day, curiosity got the better of me. I crept to Ma's door and peeked. Her back was hunched, shielding what she was looking at. She slid the item into her cupboard and locked it with a key. The string always hooked around her neck.

  My nose tingled. Secret. Ma is hiding a secret!

  I was seven. I didn’t have a phone, but I swiped through hers. I found a “lockpicking for dummies” video, hid her phone, and muttered to myself in confidence, "I, her brilliant daughter, shall use it to the fullest."

  I searched for Mr. Smithy, the neighbor with every hardware tool imaginable. He lent me lockpicks. He never asked why. His motto: “An ignorant man is a live one.”

  I practiced for weeks. School doorknobs, neighbor’s locks. I accidentally destroyed a few, but no one noticed.

  Finally, I crouched low in Ma's room, lockpick in hand. I got to work. The pick scraped lightly against steel. Click. Snap. Click. And another. Minutes passed, but I didn't give up. Then, with a soft click, the lock gave way.

  I hummed, opened the cupboard, and inside was a photo frame. Just as Ma called, "Bènbèn! Where are you?" My heart skipped a beat. I took one hard look, shoved it back, and ran. Since then, I never entered Ma's room without permission.

  My feet slowed and halted again. My breath caught.

  A smile.

  Warm. Joyful.

  Familiar.

  My sister.

  My mouth hung slightly open. A surge of warmth rushed to my eyes. My eyes traced her face. Her smile. Sis. When did that smile fade? When did everything change?

  My chest tightened.

  "What exactly happened?" I whispered, hoping for an answer. Even the tiniest hint from the house was fine.

  But the painting didn't answer. Neither did the house. Just another frozen memory, sealed behind brush strokes and silence. I scoffed. That's when my eyes found something explicitly small.

  ??/??/????.

  I rolled my eyes. Now I understand why Ma said that humans were ungrateful creatures.

  Ronald's voice came from behind. "Who's that? She's really pretty."

  "I'm prettier," I whispered, which earned a brow raised from Ronald. "That's my sister."

  "You have a sister, Llyne?"

  I gave a tiny smirk. I didn't know what to say. We might have lived in the same house for twelve years, but we knew nothing about each other. "Not like it'll change now."

  I turned away, letting my feet carry me forward. "Let's focus on finding Rona."

  Although I couldn't see Ronald's face, I could feel his gaze. My head tilted down, and something wet slid down my chin.

  Step. Step. Step. The corridor refused to end. It stretched like a twisted dream. My patience thinned with every stride.

  Ronald sensed my frustration and offered, "Tired, Llyne? I can carry you."

  "Nope. I just want to get out of here as soon as we can."

  As we moved, Ronald pointed at another painting. "Llyne. Look at this painting."

  I took a glance and felt a wave of uneasiness. Ronald rushed forward before I could say anything. I followed closely and cautiously behind.

  A mature woman. Elegant. Composed. There was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary, even the date of death was there, but a corner of my eye blurred. I kept rubbing it but it was still a blur.

  I don't like this. This feels wrong. Very wrong. I glared at the painting and turned to Ronald, "Why are we here?"

  His eyes met mine, he thought for a while, then shook his head. "Don't know. It just caught my eye."

  I sighed and shook my head in disbelief. When I turned to look at the painting, I nearly stumbled.

  An empty canvas stared back at me. My mouth was left agape.

  Ronald shrieked. "Where did she go?!"

  My heart thumped loud and fast. Did the woman… get revived?

  My eyes drifted down. "The date of death is gone?"

  Then...

  Creak. Creak... CREAK...

  Our heads snapped around. The beam sliced through the darkness. And there she was. The woman. From the painting.

  Standing there at the far end of the corridor, bathed in shadow and torchlight. But something was wrong. Her head tilted unnaturally. Her limbs twitched. Her mouth moved, whispering something incoherent.

  "...se...ll...de…"

  The words were broken, garbled.

  Her body twitched and jerked, spine cracking. Arms twisted, feet dragging, before she slammed to the floor.

  Our eyes followed.

  The surroundings were silent except for cracking bones. Every sway produced another crack. Her body rolled, stomach up, hands and feet pressed to the ground.

  She took one step, then paused. I could hear Ronald's sigh beside me. But she made another step. Ronald's body flinched, and he started hiccupping. Every time he hiccupped, she took a step.

  I elbowed Ronald to stop, but he couldn't control it. I gave one hard slap on his back, then suddenly, the lady went full-on frenzy.

  CRACK. SLAM. SNAP.

  I froze for a heartbeat, heart hammering. Then she lunged again.

  She bounded forward, a grotesque blur of motion, limbs scraping the walls as she charged. Our bodies flinched, instinctively pressing close, arms tightening around each other. But we couldn't look away.

  Her bones popped and cracked, her jaw unhinging in a grotesque leer. And then, she launched.

  Ronald screamed. "Z-Z-ZOMBIE!!!!"

  My body took control and ran. My mind was still frozen in the image of her grotesque looks. By the time my mind cleared up, we were already a few feet away.

  I turned and instantly regretted it. I saw her bouncing off the walls. Her movements were unnatural, fast, almost weightless. She was like some nightmare torn from the seams of reality.

  "WAAAH! Do all zombies move like her?! How is she so agile?!"

  She lunged. Her claws shoved between Ronald and me. Air hissed past my ears as I barely dodged, heart hammering, every nerve screaming. I twisted, grabbed Ronald, his fingers trembling with mine. We dodged left. I can't believe it. Years of Ma beating me saved us. Thank you, Ma.

  The lady came again. This time, I stopped and turned back. Ronald yelped, "What are you doing? Run Llyne!"

  I ignored his screams. She lunged. I dropped low. Foot into her chest. The impact rattled my bones. My foot! Is she made of bricks?

  She didn’t move. That’s when I realized I was so dead.

  I looked up. Her torn mouth arched upwards. A corner of my mouth twitched.