The empty side of the bed was a cold monument. Every night, Clara pressed herself against the far edge, as if giving the vast, chilled space the respect a grave deserved. It had been six months. The silence in the old house was a thick, suffocating blanket.

But tonight, the silence had a different quality. A waiting quality.

She was almost asleep when she felt it.

A whisper of cold air drifted across her collarbone, raising goosebumps in its wake. She shivered, pulling the duvet tighter. Just a draft, she told herself, from the old window frame.

Then it came again. Not a draft. This was… deliberate. A distinct, circling...