What You Type → What You Get

# The Glen The house had been a steal. That's what Aidan Chen kept telling himself as he hauled the last box of books up the porch steps, trying not to think about *why* a place like this — two stories of Victorian-style charm with actual crown molding and hardwood floors that didn't creak — had been listed for less than a studio apartment in the city. "Because it's in the middle of nowhere," he muttered, shouldering open the front door. "Because the nearest Thai restaurant is forty-five minutes away. Because you're an idiot who makes bad decisions after breakups." The door swung shut behind him with a solid thunk that echoed through the empty foyer. Three days in, and he still hadn't gotten used to the silence. Not peaceful silence — the kind you'd expect in the countryside — but an *active* silence, if that made sense. The kind that felt like it was listening. He dropped the box in what the realtor had optimistically called "the library" — a room with built-in shelves and a window seat that overlooked the glen itself. The natural depression the house sat in was steep enough that from this window, he could only see the hills rising on three sides, their tops crowned with bare trees that rattled in the October wind. The fourth side opened toward the road, but even that felt enclosed somehow, like the land itself wanted to cup the house in its palm. Aidan unpacked books onto the shelves, trying to make the space feel lived-in. His copies of *Sandman* and *Locke & Key* went on the middle shelf. Some battered Pratchetts. A collection of Shirley Jackson stories that his ex had given him and that he should probably throw away but couldn't quite bring himself to. The light was already fading. 4:47 PM, and the sun was slipping behind the western hill like it was in a hurry to be somewhere else. His phone buzzed. A text from his mom: *How's the new place? Settled in yet?* He typed back: *Getting there. It's quiet. Really quiet.* Her response came immediately: *Quie