The knocking came faintly at first — a gentle, hesitant rhythm against the old front door. Alana stirred. Her back ached, her legs numb from sleeping curled on the wooden floor. For a moment she didn't know where she was; then the smell of dust and lavender reminded her. Grandma's house.
The knocking came again, a little firmer this time. She blinked against the afternoon light pouring through the windows. Judging by the golden hue slanting across the floor, it was late noon.
Alana groaned softly and pushed herself upright. Her head throbbed from crying, her throat raw. She rubbed her face with her palms and winced when she brushed the tender skin near her cheekbone. She didn't want to imagine what she looked like.
"Coming," she croaked, clearing her voice.
When she opened the door, the sunlight hit her full in the face, warm and blinding for a moment. Standing on the porch was a woman with soft blonde hair pulled into a loose bun, a gentle roundness to her stomach beneath a light summer dress. She held a covered dish and wore a kind smile that reached her pale blue eyes.
"Hi there," the woman said brightly. "You must be Alana."
"Yes…" Alana hesitated, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm Erica — Tom's wife," she said, her voice lilting with a small-town friendliness. "He told me you just moved back in and must be exhausted. I figured you wouldn't have had time to cook, so I brought you something for lunch."
Alana blinked at her in surprise. "Oh… that's very kind of you."
Erica laughed softly, handing over the warm glass dish. "Don't mention it. It's just roast chicken and mashed potatoes — nothing fancy. I made too much, and Tom said you were our new neighbor. I thought I'd say hi before the day slipped away."
Alana smiled faintly. "That's really thoughtful, thank you."
Erica's smile faltered slightly. Her gaze lingered — just a second too long — on Alana's face. "Oh… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare," she said quickly. "I just—did I catch you at a bad time?"
Alana frowned, confused, then laughed nervously. "Oh, no! I just woke up, actually. Probably why my eyes are all red."
She didn't realize that the traces of mascara and foundation were long gone, her swollen eye and bruised cheekbone stark in the daylight.
Erica's expression softened. "Long trip, huh?"
"Yeah. Very long."
"Well," Erica said after a pause, "you take care of yourself, alright? It's nice to finally meet you, Alana. Your grandmother used to talk about you all the time."
"She did?"
"All the time," Erica nodded. "She was proud, you know. Said her granddaughter was bright and stubborn, just like her. I thought I'd meet you sooner, but…" She stopped herself, realizing the weight of what she was saying. "Anyway, I'll stop rambling. You must be starving."
Alana managed a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Erica. Really."
"Anytime," Erica said softly, one hand resting protectively over her belly. "And if you ever need anything, we're just down the road. Tom keeps insisting the back fence is the best shortcut."
She gave a small laugh, then turned to leave. Alana stood on the porch for a moment, watching her waddle gently down the path. She could feel the woman's sympathy trailing behind her like a whisper in the wind.
Inside, the house seemed quieter than before. Alana placed the warm dish on the kitchen counter and lifted the lid. The smell hit her instantly — buttery mashed potatoes, roasted herbs, and the faint sweetness of carrots. Her stomach growled embarrassingly loud.
She sat at the old dining table — the same one her grandmother used to set for two — and ate slowly at first, then faster. The food was simple but rich, one of the best meals she'd had in years.
Afterwards, she leaned back in the creaking chair and glanced at her phone. A missed call blinked on the screen — her lawyer.
She hesitated, then dialed back.
"Alana?" The woman's voice was brisk but warm. "I was just checking in — wanted to make sure you got there safely."
"I did," Alana said, swallowing a lump in her throat. "I'm… settling in. Still cleaning, but it's peaceful here. Really peaceful."
"I'm glad to hear that. You deserve some peace," the lawyer said softly. "Don't rush yourself. One day at a time."
"Yeah… one day at a time."
They exchanged a few more words — the kind that hovered between professional courtesy and genuine concern — before Alana ended the call. She wasn't sure whether to call her a friend or not. The woman had been assigned by the state during the trial, but she'd been the only one who truly listened. For that alone, Alana was grateful.
After washing the dish, she set it carefully aside and found the closet where her grandmother kept cleaning supplies — old rags, lemon-scented polish, and a mop that squeaked when moved.
She began in the living room, dusting off shelves and pulling away the old sheets covering the furniture. Each object — a porcelain cat, a cracked photo frame, a chipped teacup — carried a piece of her grandmother's life.
When she reached the main bedroom, she paused at the doorway. The air felt cooler there, stiller somehow. The curtains swayed lightly even though the windows were closed. The bed was neatly made, the floral quilt faded but clean.
Her reflection caught in the standing mirror by the wardrobe.
She stared at herself — the loose shirt wrinkled from travel, her skin pale, her eyes ringed with red but startlingly blue in the soft light. The bruises stood out sharply now, but there was something else behind them.
That same strange pull she'd felt when first entering Gray Hollow — a faint pressure, like the air around her was thicker, aware of her presence.
A chill crawled up her arms.
She looked away, brushing her hair behind her ears, and forced a laugh. "It's just jet lag," she whispered to the empty room.