Page 10

No. Thank you. I have talked enough. I know exactly what happened. The problem is that nobody else does.

Thunder cracks overhead. The windows shake. The cottage goes silent. Not literally. Houses don't become silent. But something about the air changes.

The kind of silence that happens when someone stops talking because they are listening.

But I see nothing. Of course, nothing.

I walk into the kitchen and start making tea. A practical activity. A normal activity. Something a reasonable person does during a storm.

The kettle begins to whistle. The lights flicker again. This time, they don't immediately return.

Darkness fills the cottage. For a moment, I am completely still. Then the emergency lantern on the counter turns on.

I stare at it. I haven't touched it. The lantern sits exactly where I left it after unpacking boxes months ago. The switch is on.

My heartbeat quickens. Not from fear. Annoyance. Fear is dramatic. Annoyance is reasonable. I walk over and turn it off.

"Old wiring," I whisper.

The words sound less convincing now. The storm continues. Rain pours harder. Outside, the world disappears behind sheets of gray water.

My phone loses service. Then reconnects. Then loses it again.

The Wi-Fi router blinks. Once. Twice. The cottage settles. I force myself to breathe. This is weather. This is electricity. This is an old house during a storm. Nothing more.

Then I hear it. Three knocks. I stop. Not from the sound itself. From the fact that someone is standing outside in this storm.

Nobody comes here during weather like this. Nobody except⁠—

Three more knocks. Louder. Urgent. I move toward the door. The old floorboards complain beneath my feet. The porch light flickers on before I reach the window. I stop.

The rain obscures the glass. I wipe a hand across the fogged pane. Someone is standing on my porch. A teenager. Maybe 15 or sixteen. Completely drenched. Dark hair plastered to his forehead. A backpack hangs from one shoulder.

He looks exhausted. Cold. Terrified.

I unlock the door. The moment it opens, wind and rain rush inside. The boy stumbles back.

"Sorry," he says immediately.

His voice is rough. Young.

"I know this is weird."

That is one of the greatest understatements in human history. A soaking wet teenager appearing at my isolated cottage during a thunderstorm is beyond weird. It's practically a horror movie opening.

I glance over my shoulder. The empty hallway waits behind me. Every sensible instinct tells me not to invite a stranger inside. Every human instinct tells me not to leave a child standing outside in freezing rain.

"Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head.

"No."

A lie. Not because I see an injury. Because I recognize the expression. People who are fine don't look like they are running from something.

"What happened?"

He looks past me. At the cottage. Not at me. At the house. His expression changes. Like he expected something. Like he recognizes it. That bothers me more than it should.