I dreamt the house remembered me

I was in a living room I’d never seen, but the carpet was the same shade of beige as my grandmother’s. The air smelled like old paper and faintly of lemon cleaner—like the kind I use after work. I stood in front of a bookshelf, and each book had my name on the spine, but the titles were all wrong: 'How to Forget,' 'The Last Thing She Said,' 'Why I Left.' I opened one. The pages were blank. Then I heard footsteps behind me. Not mine. I turned. No one there. But the door to the hallway was closed. I hadn’t closed it.