That night, she stood in the dark hallway outside Emma’s door, listening. No tapping came. Only the small, steady sound of her child’s breathing and the distant murmur of the boiler. The quiet felt almost mocking now, as if the house were waiting to see whether she would be brave enough to ask the next question.
The following afternoon, over lukewarm tea in the staffroom, she mentioned the inspection to a colleague. “They say there’s a hidden space in the wall,” she said, attempting a laugh. Her colleague raised her eyebrows. “Creepy. But… also kind of cool? These old houses had all sorts of nooks. Probably just storage someone boarded up.”