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Elif had come to stop it. Her face was lined with the geography of someone who had walked the border between, had been both donor and receiver. "You are young yet," she told Konur, "but the house thinks in old bones. If it buries you with other people's winters, you'll drown."

On the third night the television in the house — an old CRT set tucked in a corner of that paused room — blinked to life unaided. Static resolved into an image: a hallway he recognized because it was the hallway in his own rental, filmed from inside his closet. He watched himself sleeping on the screen and felt, for the first time, an honesty so raw it hurt. A voice, not from the radio but from behind the static, narrated in a hush that pooled in the bones: “You found us. We have been looking for a mouth.”

It pushed back with winter. Storms came without warning; radios spun to frequencies that hummed like teeth. Neighbors who had once avoided the house found themselves restless at night, eyes hollow with the static of voices that were not their own. A boy disappeared beneath the willow and came back speaking in a tongue no living person recognized. He brought with him a smile and a bag full of stones that hummed when you held them. The town began to weigh itself in things: in missing stories, in sudden knowledges, in the texture of names that no one could entirely own.