The diesel engine of the hire car rattles with a rhythmic, metallic cough that feels too loud for the Cotswold twilight. Catherine Ainsworth sits with her hands draped loosely over the steering wheel, watching the headlamps carve yellow tunnels into the unchecked waist-high grass of her mother’s drive. The honey-coloured stone of the cottage is grey in the gloaming, a silent sentinel she hasn't faced since 1989. Thirty years, she thinks, the silence of the village pressing against the glass. It smells of damp earth and woodsmoke, even through the vents.
She reaches for the ignition, but her fingers hesitate on the key. The estate agent had warned her the garden was a jungle, but the sight of the ivy strangling the porch feels like a personal reproach. Margaret never did believe in letting things go to seed. Catherine adjusts her oatmeal cardigan, feeling the weight of the brass house keys in her pocket—heavy, cold, and entirely unfamiliar. She is a London doctor with a tidy flat and a quiet life; she does not belong to this dust anymore.
A sudden flash of white catches her eye, reflecting sharply against the glass. She glances at the mirror, expecting only the dark lane and the silhouette of the drystone wall. Instead, two pale beams of light turn into the drive behind her.
