Every person in Bellweather had a second house.

Nobody lived in it.

Inside each stood a version of its owner.

Not another person exactly.

A preserved person.

The baker’s spare house contained the obedient daughter her parents still described at family dinners.

The mayor’s contained the fearless young man his oldest friends remembered.

The teacher’s contained the woman her former husband believed she had remained.

The village considered this arrangement extremely useful.

Whenever somebody changed too much, another person could visit their spare house instead.

“You never used to care about money,” a friend might say.

And there, sitting perfectly still behind glass, was the proof.

“You always wanted children,” a mother might insist.

The spare version smiled politely from its kitchen.

“You were happier before you left.”

The old self waited by the window.

People found enormous comfort in one another’s spare houses.

The living people were considerably more inconvenient.

They changed opinions.

They discovered boundaries.

They stopped enjoying things.

They acquired ambitions.

They lost ambitions.

They forgave people nobody expected them to forgive.

They refused people everyone expected them to tolerate.

One afternoon, a woman named Elian returned to Bellweather after eleven years away.

Her spare house had become unusually popular.

Her family visited often.

Her former friends occasionally brought visitors.

Inside was Elian at twenty three.

She wanted exactly what everyone remembered her wanting.

When the real Elian entered the house, she stood opposite herself for a long time.

“You were easier,” her brother said.

“For whom?”

He did not answer.

Elian walked around the glass case.

Her younger self looked certain.

The certainty irritated her.

Then she remembered something.

“I wasn’t certain.”

Her brother frowned.

“You were.”

“No. I was frightened.”

“But you never said that.”

“I know.”

The village had preserved what people had seen.

Not what she had felt.

Elian opened the glass.

An alarm rang across Bellweather.

Neighbours came running.

Nobody had ever opened a spare self before.

“What happens if you let her out?” someone shouted.

Elian looked at the twenty three year old.

Nothing happened.

She did not wake.

She did not disappear.

She was only a memory shaped like evidence.

Elian left the door open and walked home.

Within weeks, other people began entering their spare houses.

Some laughed.

Some cried.

One apologised to the person he had been.

Another thanked hers.

Several discovered that the version everybody remembered had never existed quite as remembered.

Eventually the village stopped repairing the houses.

Rain entered.

Dust settled.

Plants grew through floors.

The spare people faded.

Years later, visitors asked why Bellweather contained so many beautiful ruins.

The villagers would explain:

“We used to keep people where we could understand them.”

“And why did you stop?”

“Because they kept living.”

Fiction note

This is an original Arise Stories fable. Bellweather, Elian, the spare houses and all events are fictional.