For a few evenings, she followed the plan. She left a lamp on low in the hallway, read until her eyes grew heavy, and refused to sit in silence waiting. When the house creaked, she named it and moved on. The wall remained mute, and she almost believed the worst of it was passing.
Then, one cold night, the first tap came just as she began to relax. A single, firm knock from the same place as always, low on the wall behind Emma’s bed. A pause followed, long enough for her to wonder if she’d imagined it. Then two more, closer together, like an answer to a question she couldn’t hear.