The house itself did not help. It had been standing nearly a century, all brick and timber, a retired farmhouse at the edge of the village. Lucy had never lived in anything older than a city flat. On the first night, every groan of wood sounded like a footstep.
Wind pressed against the windows with a low, insistent moan. Pipes clanged alive in the walls as the boiler kicked on. Floorboards sighed beneath their own weight, wood shifting as temperatures dropped. Lying awake beside Emma’s soft breathing, Lucy catalogued each unfamiliar sound, heart hammering like she was on watch.