The Lensworth house had never been so silent.

Even the paintings along the corridor seemed to hold their breath. The fireplace in the sitting room had long burned out, leaving only the faint scent of ash and an echo of warmth in the stones. Moonlight streamed through the high windows, spilling silver across the marble floor. Somewhere far off, a clock chimed once, its sound thin and distant, like it belonged to another life.

The air smelled faintly of old parchment and the lavender oil her mother always used in the corners of the room. The scent was comforting once. Now it felt like a ghost.

It was quiet. Too quiet. But not the kind of quiet that invited rest — but the kind that sat heavy in the air, thick with waiting. The walls creaked in protest against the stillness. Outside, wind nudged gently against the shutters, but the house did not move. It was holding its breath.

And so was she.

Twelve-year old Niki Lensworth sat on the bottom stair, legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. Her cheek rested against her knees. Her two braids fell over her shoulders, neat and taut, tied with navy ribbon that had started to fray.

She hadn’t undone them. Her mother had braided her hair just after dinner, humming a lullaby in soft Spanish under her breath, and Niki had kept them in like they were armor — as if the memory of her mother’s touch could somehow protect her from what she already feared.

She told herself she wasn’t waiting. But her eyes were fixed on the front door, unblinking, lashes damp though no tears had fallen. Not yet.

She had been sitting there for over three hours.

And the slice of blackberry tart still sat on the kitchen counter, the warmth charm she casted long faded.