Lucy sat back on her heels, the room spinning slightly. She pictured small hands clutching the horse in the dark. She wiped the little horse gently with a clean cloth and placed it on the dresser, away from Emma’s reach for now. The object changed her understanding; the house had contained someone’s fear, someone’s waiting.
Harris, when he returned, cleared his throat softly. “Looks like some kind of old bunk,” he said. “People sometimes built hidey‑holes in wartime. Smugglers, evacuees, that sort of thing.” His tone stayed practical, but he did not sound entirely unaffected. “We’ll need to open a bit more if you want access.”