On the chosen day, the house filled with the muted thud of tools and the whine of a small saw. Dust drifted into the hallway, fine and pale, carrying a smell like old paper and cold stone. Lucy hovered nearby, heart beating too fast, telling herself it was only curiosity, only architecture.
“Got something,” Harris called after a while. Lucy stepped into the room. A neat rectangle had been cut low in the wall, revealing darkness beyond. Air seeped through, cooler than the room, with a faint, sour tang of age. Harris shone a torch inside. “Looks like a narrow void. I can’t see the end yet.”