The map clearly marked the place as “safe,” which immediately made her suspicious. It was her handwriting. That was the unsettling part. The looping letters, the uneven spacing—it was exactly how she used to write as a kid. Before everything changed. Before she stopped drawing maps of imaginary worlds and started navigating real ones. “Safe,” she whispered, tracing the word with her finger. She didn’t remember making this map. But she remembered the place. The old house at the edge of town. Abandoned. Boarded up. The kind of place kids dared each other to enter. Except she had. Once. And apparently, she’d come back. The door creaked as she pushed it open, the smell of dust and damp wood rushing out to greet her. Inside, everything looked smaller than she remembered. Or maybe she was just bigger. The hallway stretched ahead, lined with doors she didn’t want to open. But the map led her forward. Always forward. She reached the room at the end. The one she had marked. Safe. Her hand trembled as she turned the knob. Inside, the room was untouched. No dust. No decay. Just a single chair in the center—and a small figure sitting in it. A child. Drawing. The girl looked up. Same face. Same eyes. Younger. “You came back,” the child said simply. Her throat tightened. “What is this?” The girl shrugged. “This is where you left me.” A cold realization settled in. All the fear. All the things she couldn’t explain back then—she hadn’t escaped them. She had locked them away. Here. In this room. Marked safe. “Take me with you,” the child said, standing. She hesitated. Because she knew. Safe didn’t mean harmless. It meant contained. And some things were meant to stay that way. Behind her, the door creaked again, slowly closing. In the end, the fire alarm worked perfectly; it just warned the wrong people.