The House

Some doors are locked for your safety. 

Others are locked so you never find out who built them.

This book isn't angry. Not exactly.

It won't raise its voice or throw bricks through windows.

It'll smile politely as you pour your coffee,

whisper something unsettling just as you take your first sip

and you won't remember what it was,

only that your hand started shaking.

Inside: children who don't know they're marching,

lullabies that taste like ash,

a sky that forgets how to be blue,

and questions that get you disappeared.

There are no heroes here. No villains either.

Just people with mirrors for faces and names that feel slightly... off.

You might think this book is about fascism.

You'd be wrong.

If you're looking for hope, try fiction.

If you're looking for healing, see a doctor.

If you're looking for answers

well. That's how they get you.

The revolution was televised.

You changed the channel.

Now, here you are-staring into a mirror that doesn't blink.

Hope isn't absent. It's just...heavily redacted.

Turn the page.

Or don't.

But either way, it knows you've seen it now.

Just know:

Once you open the door,

it might not close behind you.

You were never meant to feel safe in The House.