Zoe by Alisa Yunes

The house stood alone near the forest,

tall and dark. Its big windows showed a little of what was inside—dim lights, shadows moving. Zoe took a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. Loud music shook the walls, a mix of guitars and deep voices. She already felt uncomfortable.

The door opened. Sandra, the writer, stood there, holding a glass of red wine. She was barefoot and had a small, strange smile. Her blue eyes looked at Zoe without warmth. "You’re early," she said in a thick German accent. She stepped aside to let her in.

Inside, the air felt heavy. The smell of old books, candles, and something strange filled the room. A fire burned in the corner, but the music—so loud, so overwhelming—came from upstairs. Samuel, the musician, was in his studio. He never turned the music down.

Daniel, their son, sat on the couch, petting a dog curled up in his lap. He didn’t look up. The dog, Snoop, wanted to play with a ball with Daniel.

"Sit here, please," Sandra said, pointing at an old chair with torn fabric. Zoe sat carefully.

"You seem... nervous," Sandra said, watching her closely.

"It’s just... the music," Zoe answered. But really, it was everything. The dark room, the strong smell of ink and wine, Sandra’s strange smile. And the music—it was too much.

Daniel finally spoke in perfect French. "He listens to this all day. It never stops." He scratched Snoop’s ear. The dog let out a soft whine.

Sandra laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. "Creativity needs noise. It needs chaos," she said. She leaned closer. "Don’t you think so?"

Zoe pressed her hands together. Sandra's stare made her feel trapped, like a bug under glass.

Then the music stopped.

Silence filled the house, thick and strange.

Footsteps came from upstairs. Someone was coming down.

Zoe suddenly wished she had never come.