Nothing.
Just shadows and silence and the creeping cold of another January evening.
She turned away from the window and made herself a cup of tea she didn't really want. The kettle's whistle was too loud in the empty cottage, and she jumped at the sound before laughing at herself.
"Get it together," she muttered.
But the feeling didn't fade. Even as she sat at her small kitchen table, hands wrapped around the warm mug, shecouldn't shake the sense that someone was out there. Watching. Waiting.
Her phone sat on the table, dark and silent. She thought about texting Corin, then immediately dismissed the idea. And tell him what? That she had a bad feeling? Yeah, that didn’t sound desperate.
He'd probably come over anyhow. That was the kind of thing he did now. Showing up when she needed him, defending her to strangers, walking her home like she was something precious.
You do matter to me. I thought that was obvious.
She took a sip of tea and tried not to think about the way he'd looked when he said it. The steadiness in his eyes. The quiet certainty in his voice.
Why did she care so much?
The question had been circling in her head since she'd left him standing on the street. She'd almost reached for him. Almost closed the distance and touched his arm and let herself believe that the warmth in his gaze meant something more than sympathy.
But she'd pulled back. Because hoping was dangerous. Every time she'd let herself believe she belonged somewhere, that belief had been ripped away.
Maybe she just wanted someone in this town to not see her as an outcast. Maybe Corin's defense had felt so significant because he was the first person in months who'd looked at her and seen something other than suspicion.
That made more sense than the alternative, being that Corin Vane, steady and patient and impossibly kind, might actually feel something for her.
Ridiculous.
She finished her tea and set the mug in the sink. The prickling sensation was still there, that awareness of beingwatched. She needed to move, to do something with her hands, to stop sitting here spiraling into thoughts she couldn't afford.
The garden.
It was dark, but there was enough moonlight filtering through the clouds to see by. And she hadn't checked the soil since this morning. With everything spreading, she needed to stay on top of it.
She pulled on her coat and boots and stepped outside.
The cold hit her immediately, sharp and biting. Her breath fogged in the air as she crossed the small yard to the raised beds she'd built last spring. The plants here were dormant, sleeping beneath a layer of mulch, but even sleeping plants could tell you things if you knew how to listen.
She knelt beside the nearest bed and pulled off her gloves.
The soil was cold against her bare fingers. She pressed her palm flat, the way she always did, and waited.
At first, there was nothing. Just the familiar sensation of earth beneath her hand, dense and quiet. Then, slowly, something else began to filter through.
Intent.
Not hers. Not the soil's natural rhythm. This was something layered on top, woven into the ground like thread through fabric. A presence that didn't belong and its purpose…
She'd felt the wrongness before, the sour stillness that came with the spreading sickness. But this was different. This wasn't passive contamination. This was active. Deliberate. Like someone had reached into the earth and left a piece of themselves behind.
She pulled her hand back, her heart pounding. The prickling at her neck intensified. Someone was watching her. She was certain of it now.
She stood slowly, scanning the darkness beyond her yard. The tree line was a wall of black, impenetrable. If someone was out there, she'd never see them.
"Hello?" Her voice came out braver than she felt. "Is someone there?"
No answer. Just the whisper of wind through bare branches.
