You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Some houses collapse when families leave them. Their roofs bow, their porches soften, their paint scabs off like old skin. But some houses refuse. They hold their frame the way a jaw holds its teeth. They endure as if waiting for an appointment that no one else remembers.

On the edge of town, past a hedge that never grows wild and never looks clipped, there stands such a house. Vacant since 1969, its windows should be blank with dust. Its porch should have gone gray and soft. Its brass handle should have dulled to green. Yet the panes shine. The wood gleams. The handle feels warm in the hand, like it expects you.

Neighbors call it the House That Waited.

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