That night, rain hissed against the windows. The tapping returned—softer, almost tentative. Lucy sat upright, pulse quickening. She turned off the bedside lamp to listen. The pattern seemed deliberate: three soft knocks, a pause, then one final tap. Emma, lost in her dream, giggled in her sleep.
The next morning, lines of fatigue traced Lucy’s face. She brewed coffee early and stared at the wall separating Emma’s room from the guest room beside it. According to the plan of the house, the rooms should have been equal in size, but they couldn’t be if this tapping was real.