Rain lashes against the kitchen window, turning the Vermont woods into a wall of thrashing grey. Nora stands by the sink, the cold copper smell of the old pipes rising to meet the steam from her tea. The house is too quiet, the kind of silence that has thickened over eleven years of grief. Then, a sharp, rhythmic rapping strikes the wood of the back door. It is firm, deliberate, and entirely impossible at this hour in a storm like this.
She freezes, her fingers tightening around the ceramic mug. No one drives up the mud-slicked track after dark. Nora crosses the linoleum, her breath hitching as she reaches for the deadbolt. Through the thick oak, a voice rises—thin, shivering, but carrying a cadence that makes the blood go cold in Nora’s veins. It is a voice she buried a decade ago.
'Nor-bug, it's me,' the girl outside whispers, using the name only one person ever knew. 'Let me in.' Nora’s hand trembles on the brass latch as the yellow porch light flickers. A figure steps out of the driving rain, moving slowly up the porch steps.
