That evening, after putting Emma to bed, she pressed her ear to the wall. Beneath the faint music of pipes, she caught a rhythm—three soft thumps, then two short taps. She held her breath. When she rapped back, silence followed, thick as dust before settling again.
That night, Lucy dreamed of narrow, breathless, and windowless corridors. Footsteps scuffed behind her, always one pace away. She woke to find Emma at her bedside holding a cracked piece of dried paint. “The wall was crying,” the child whispered. Outside, dawn spread pale light across the rain-soaked roof.