By morning, the events of the previous night felt like a half-remembered dream—until Lyra noticed the faint outline of footprints in the dust outside her door. They were smudged, too light to belong to anyone carrying a lantern, too small for Mrs. Harrow's heavy steps.
She crouched and brushed a finger through the prints. They trailed toward the staircase and vanished halfway down, as though the person had simply disappeared.
When she mentioned it over breakfast, Mrs. Harrow froze mid-motion, the silver teapot trembling slightly in her grasp.
"Footprints?" the woman repeated, forcing a laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "You must have imagined it, Miss Lyra. The mind plays tricks in new places."
"I know what I saw," Lyra said quietly.
Mrs. Harrow's lips thinned. "Best to keep such talk to yourself. The staff spook easily."
But even as she spoke, one of the maids—a pale girl with curly hair and anxious eyes—looked up sharply from clearing plates. Lyra caught her gaze and offered a faint smile. The girl dropped her eyes and hurried away, nearly tripping over her apron strings.
"Who was that?" Lyra asked.
"Clara," Mrs. Harrow replied curtly. "She's young. Pays too much attention to stories."
Stories. The word hung in the air like a warning.
That afternoon, Lyra wandered into the library again. Sunlight spilled across the floor in thin golden strips, glinting off the brass handle of the locked door. She stood before it, heart thudding, and laid her palm against the wood. Cold seeped through her skin.
"What are you hiding?" she whispered.
She was so focused she didn't hear Clara enter until the girl spoke.
"You shouldn't touch that door, miss."
Lyra turned sharply. "Why not?"
Clara hesitated, wringing her hands in her apron. "It's been locked for years. Mrs. Harrow says it's storage, but—" She stopped, eyes darting toward the hallway. "Things move behind it sometimes. When the house is quiet."
Lyra's pulse quickened. "What kind of things?"
The girl looked stricken. "I don't know. But once, I heard someone humming. It sounded like a boy."
Before Lyra could ask more, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Clara flinched and scurried out just as Mrs. Harrow appeared in the doorway, expression tight.
"I told you not to wander, Miss Lyra," she said. "This part of the house isn't for guests."
Lyra straightened. "And yet I live here now."
Mrs. Harrow's eyes hardened, but her voice stayed calm. "Some doors were meant to stay closed. The Hollow remembers what it must."
Before Lyra could reply, the woman turned sharply and left.
Later, Lyra found Tom outside trimming the hedges near the courtyard. The sky was bruised with the color of approaching rain.
"Tom," she called. "Do you know anything about the west wing?"
He froze, shears mid-air. "Who told you about that?"
"I found a locked door in the library. Mrs. Harrow doesn't want me near it."
Tom lowered his tools slowly. "No surprise there. She's been here longer than anyone. Knows when to leave the past buried."
"Past?" Lyra pressed.
He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "There was someone who lived there once. Years ago. A boy. The last Hollow heir."
Her heart gave a small, startled lurch. "What happened to him?"
Tom hesitated, glancing toward the looming windows of the estate. "Depends who you ask. Some say he left. Others say the house kept him."
A cold wind swept through the garden, rustling the trees. Tom's gaze darted to the shadows. "I shouldn't talk about this," he muttered. "Forget I said anything."
That night, the rain began. It came in soft sheets, pattering against the glass. Lyra sat awake in bed, unable to shake the image of the locked door. The house creaked and sighed around her, old bones shifting in the storm.
At some point past midnight, a faint sound reached her ears—notes, slow and deliberate, drifting through the corridors.
Music.
She slipped out of bed and followed it, barefoot, her candle trembling in the draft. The melody led her down the stairs and through the hall until she stopped outside the library. The door was ajar, swaying slightly.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old wood and damp. The piano sat in the corner, its keys pale and chipped. No one was there.
Yet the last note lingered, hanging in the air like a sigh.
Lyra's candle flickered. She moved closer, drawn by something she didn't understand. Her gaze landed on the locked door.
It was trembling—faintly, almost like a heartbeat.
She stepped closer and pressed her ear against it.
"Hello?" she whispered.
For a moment, only silence answered. Then a voice, soft and distant, spoke from the other side.
"You already know."
Lyra stumbled back, her candle slipping from her fingers. The flame died as it hit the floor, plunging the room into darkness.