She inherits the house she spent her whole childhood afraid of. Ten years after the last person who lived there died, the porch light is still on, and the caretaker never left. He knows which step creaks. He knows how she takes her coffee, and he was never told. Staying in the house is her own choice, and that is the part that should frighten her. A slow, quiet story about grief, obsession, and a woman who does not turn around.

The first thing I noticed about him was that his pen had no cap. By the end of the afternoon my name was on the contract, eleven months of my life were in it, and his pen was still in my fist.