I dreamt the house remembered me

I was in a living room I’d never seen before, but the carpet had that exact pattern of crushed blueberries from my childhood. The sofa was too soft, like it knew how I’d slump into it. I reached for a mug on the table—same chipped rim, same coffee stain shaped like a map—and suddenly the walls started whispering my name. Not loudly. Just the way someone says your name when they’re sure you’ll hear. I woke up with my hand still outstretched, like I was reaching through the dark to hold onto something that wasn’t there. Still feel it. Like the house was waiting.