No children playing in the street. No voices drifting from nearby homes. Just the wind brushing against dry leaves… and something else. A faint, irregular creak, as if the house itself were shifting, breathing in slow, patient intervals.
He stepped out of the car.
Each step toward the front door felt heavier than it should have, as though the ground itself resisted him.
The door stood slightly ajar.
That alone should have been impossible.
No one lived here.
No one had lived here for decades.
Daniel pushed the door open gently. It gave way with a soft, drawn-out creak that felt almost… aware. As if the house recognized him. As if it had been expecting him to return.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and something older—something that lingered beneath the surface like a memory that refused to fade.
And then he saw it.
Footprints.
Fresh.
Marked clearly in the thin layer of dust on the floor.
A glass sat on a small table nearby, faint rings of dried coffee still clinging to the inside. A worn blanket had been folded carefully over the back of a broken chair.
Someone had been here.
Recently.
A chill slid down his spine.