Set directly into the limestone was a façade. Wood, weathered to a dull gray, fitted cleanly into the mountain as if the stone had grown around it. A narrow doorframe pressed flush against the cliff. Above it, a slanted strip of metal caught the light—the edge of a tin roof, half swallowed by rock. Windows flanked the door. Real glass. Clouded with age. Reflecting sky.
The pink liquid traced down from just beneath the doorframe, dripping steadily along the cliff face they had climbed. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. “A house,” Nora said finally, disbelief thinning her voice. “There’s a house… up here.” Ethan stared at the door, at the stained wood, at the liquid seeping from inside.