The morning light slanted weakly through the tall, dust-clouded windows of the Hollow estate. Lyra woke to the sound of silence—thick, heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. For a moment she lay still, recalling the faint whispers she thought she'd heard in the night. When she finally swung her legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards creaked beneath her weight, echoing too loudly in the vast room.
She decided she couldn't remain shut away. Pulling a shawl around her shoulders, she slipped into the corridor. The house revealed itself piece by piece: tall ceilings with cracked plaster, faded wallpaper patterned with curling ivy, and portraits whose eyes seemed to follow her wherever she moved.
At the end of the corridor, she nearly collided with a woman balancing a tray of linen. The woman startled, then steadied herself, pressing a hand to her chest.
"You must be Miss Lyra," she said briskly, though her gaze slid past Lyra as if she preferred not to look too closely. She was middle-aged, with a severe bun and a uniform so crisp it seemed starched into shape.
"Yes," Lyra answered. "And you are…?"
"Mrs. Harrow. Housekeeper. If you need anything, you come to me." Her tone made it clear that needing anything was highly discouraged.
Lyra nodded, biting back her questions. Still, one escaped. "This house… has it always been so quiet?"
Mrs. Harrow's eyes flickered, the first crack in her stony composure. "Best not to dwell on such things, Miss. The Hollow keeps its own counsel. Now, breakfast is in the dining hall. Don't be late." She brushed past, leaving a faint smell of lavender and starch in her wake.
Lyra wandered further until she reached the back garden. There she found a boy no older than twenty, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hacking at weeds with unnecessary force. When he noticed her, he quickly dropped the hoe and straightened.
"Morning, miss," he said, ducking his head. His hair was a messy brown and his hands were calloused. "Name's Tom. I look after the grounds."
"Morning, Tom." Lyra offered a small smile. "They're… beautiful grounds."
He glanced toward the dark line of trees at the edge of the garden, his expression tightening. "Aye, well enough. Don't go wandering past the orchard, if you value your way back. The woods don't take kindly to strangers."
Lyra studied him, unsettled by the warning. "Why not?"
Tom shifted, scuffing his boot against the soil. "Just… don't. That's all." Then he bent to his work again, making it clear their conversation was over.
Back inside, she drifted into a room that smelled faintly of dust and old paper. The library. Shafts of light caught floating motes, revealing shelves that stretched almost to the ceiling, sagging under the weight of neglected books. She ran her fingers along cracked spines, pausing before a heavy leather journal lying on a table.
Its pages were brittle, yellowed with age, but worse—entire sections had been torn out, leaving jagged scars. On the inside cover was a name, written in an elegant hand: Edmund Hollow.
She barely had time to read the first few lines before a sudden draft swept through the library, rattling the loose pages. She turned, frowning, and saw a narrow door tucked between two bookcases. It was fitted with a brass handle, dull with age, but when she tried it, the door wouldn't budge. Cold air seeped from the crack along the frame, raising gooseflesh on her arms.
That night, Lyra tried to sleep, but rest wouldn't come. The estate seemed different after dusk—every groan of the timbers, every sigh of the wind, carried weight. She pulled the blankets tighter, telling herself she was being foolish.
Then she heard it.
A soft tread in the corridor. Slow. Measured. Pausing just outside her door.
Her breath caught. The air seemed to thin around her.
For several heartbeats, silence pressed in. Then the footsteps began again—moving away, retreating down the hall.
Something inside her broke through the fear. She slid from her bed, feet bare on the cold wood, and crept to the door. Her hand trembled on the handle, but she turned it and eased the door open.
The corridor stretched before her, shadows pooling in the corners. At the far end, a darker shape slipped out of sight. Lyra's heart pounded as she whispered to herself, the words barely audible in the stillness.
"I'm not alone here."