Lucy hardly slept. Morning light fractured across the nursery curtains as she studied her notebook’s columns. The pattern seemed deliberate—almost conversational, yet inconsistent enough to taunt logic. Lucy told herself it could be a bird nesting in the eaves or rodents. Explanations dwindled each time she examined them.
In the morning, she dragged the stepladder from the storage room to inspect the air vent above Emma’s bed. Its grille came away easily, releasing the scent of stale dust. Nothing else. Behind it lay only blocks of brickwork where an older duct must have been sealed long ago.