By the end of the week, her list formed a thin column: 10:13 PM, 01:47 AM, 11:02 PM. There was no pattern she could see, but something stubborn in her wanted one. Patterns meant reasons. Reasons meant repairmen, checklists, and invoices—things she knew how to handle as a single mother in a strange place.
Later that week, Lucy visited the neighbor, Mrs. Wenham, whose house leaned just beyond the stone fence. Over tea, Lucy mentioned the noises, expecting sympathy, suggestions, or reasons. The older woman went still, eyes softening. “Oh, that house has many stories. Who can tell after so long?” she said finally. “It must be a draft.”