I sat on the floor, back against the wall, listening. The wind played a low, unkind note through the chimney. And then — click. The last light died.
The creak paused, as if confused.
By the time the figure inside thought to look out the window, I was already three houses down, moving steady as a tide. I sat on the floor, back against the wall, listening
Not wildly. Not loudly. But deliberately. I reached left, found the iron poker by the hearth. I stood, not crouched. I took three steps toward the hallway — not away from the stairs, but across the bottom of them, to the back door I had bolted at sunset. The last light died
Silence. Then the smallest sound: a creak on the stairs that did not belong to the house. Not wildly
