There was nothing unusual about the house, until she tried to leave it. The door didn’t resist. It simply refused to lead anywhere. Beyond it was a blank, colorless space, like unfinished thought. She closed it quickly. The house, at least, was real. Solid. Predictable. Or so she believed. It wasn’t until night fell that she noticed the rule. The house did not like noise. A dropped glass caused the lights to flicker. A raised voice made the walls creak in warning. By morning, she had learned to move quietly, to breathe softly, to exist without disturbance. That was when she found the jar. It sat in the center of the dining table, filled with a fine, gray powder. When she brushed her fingers against it, she understood instantly. Sound. Or what was left of it. Every scream, every shout, every desperate attempt to be heard—ground down into silence. Stored. Forgotten. She backed away slowly. But fear has a sound. And hers was louder than she realized. The house responded immediately. The walls tightened. The air pressed inward. In a panic, she grabbed the jar and threw it. It shattered with a deafening crack. Sound returned all at once—years of it—echoing violently through the space. The house tore itself apart trying to contain it. When the noise finally stopped, she was somewhere else entirely. A courtroom. Quiet. Controlled. The jar, now whole again, sat on the evidence table. The judge thanked them politely and asked to see the jar.