Rumah Tak Kasat Mata Novels & Stories

The white lady halted with grim expression glaring at a two- storey house. Hearing that they reached the place, K Whatever’s attention went back to the mission. She observed around them. A two-storey townhouses in a quiet neighborhood. Only few lights are on, probably that most people are sleeping as of this moment. The house that the white lady was glaring at was a simple two- storey with no black mists or what not. Simple but unmaintained house as the gate was already rusty, the ground was dirty with either a little molds or a little cobwebs in the corner.

someone beside me. As I take in everything, I can feel Jace’s gaze on me, watching my every move. There are no personal touches in the house—no family photos, no keepsakes, nothing that tells me who he really is. The house feels... impersonal, like it's waiting for someone to fill it with life. The longer I stand there, the more I sense a hint of nervousness from Jace, as though he’s waiting for my reaction. A few plants dot the room, and scattered clothes suggest some signs of living here, like the white boxer shorts I spot near a closed door. I try to ignore them, guessing the door leads to either his bedroom or bathroom.

If she had paid much attention to his profile she would have noticed that gender as he/him and not a her/she. "I am not like those girls and this doesn't change anything. I can't share my apartment with you." she said firmly rising to her feet. "You'll have to look for some place else, sorry for wasting your time and that's final." she walked out of the cafe with her bag slung over her shoulder. She opened the app as she walked on the street, tapping on the for rent button. She heaved out a sigh, turning her head backwards to glance at the sky, the clouds were getting darker and heavier. Great it was going to rain and she was without a roommate.

The Maybach's engine fell silent, a stark contrast to the pulsing heartbeat in Cathleen's chest. Before her, she sat frozen, her eyes locked onto the towering glass structure that sprawled out in front of them. The house was a vision of extravagance and wealth, its transparent facade gleaming under the sun like a crystal palace. Each pane reflected the light in a dazzling display, creating an illusion of grandeur and mystery. It stood as a symbol of luxury and hidden riches, a fortress of untold stories waiting to be uncovered.

Chapter 61 Myra's new home was a quaint cottage nestled at the edge of a quiet neighborhood. The exterior boasted a welcoming facade with a pastel blue door that complemented the soft beige walls. A neatly trimmed garden lined the path leading to the entrance, adorned with blooming flowers that added a touch of warmth to the scene.

We arrive at Lukas’ house. It’s brand new. It has two levels and an attic. Some part of the walls are made of thick glass. The house is made of a strange metal that looks almost like mercury. “Have you cleaned lately?” I ask. “Of course not! Why would I clean?” “Ahm, because this is your house,” I say. Lukas pushes open the door. It’s metallic and is not making any sound. It’s different from the house I rented where the door handle is old and worn.

"Don't get used to it. They'll make up for it after." "Worth it anyway." "Definitely worth it." The house sat right on the water, wood and glass and quiet in a way the mansion never managed. Two cameras total, mounted high in the corners, easy to forget existed once the first hour passed. "This is insane," I said, standing in the doorway of our room. Actual windows. Actual silence. "There's no one filming us brushing our teeth." "Groundbreaking." "I might cry." "Save it for the emotional segment they're definitely still filming somewhere."

(Amara’s POV) The safehouse didn’t look like what I expected. It wasn’t some fortress of cold marble and cameras. It was a quiet, two-story home tucked behind heavy iron gates, wrapped in ivy and early-spring roses. There was a porch swing. A vegetable garden. Curtains that looked like they were picked by someone who cared about color and light. Homey. A word I barely understood — a word that clutched at something deep inside my chest and wouldn’t let go.

We turn up a dirt gravel road; there is nothing as far as the eyes can see, we stay on the road for another ten minutes. When we come around a turn, then I see it, the most beautiful house I have ever seen. It's not made from bricks or stone; it is from different kinds of wood. The windows are big, they are open, more windows than walls. It is surrounded by green grass all over, colorful white flowers everywhere, there is a pond with giant fish. Trees are surrounding the house for miles and miles.

I still wake up sometimes expecting the hum. That low, constant vibration under the world, like something watching from behind the walls. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am, to register the quiet, the open window, the way morning light spills across the floor without permission from any system. Then I breathe. And I remember I am free. The house is small. Intentionally so. No hidden rooms, no reinforced walls, no places designed for surveillance or control. Just wood that creaks when it settles and glass that lets the outside in.