Adrian's POV
The door gave on the third kick.
Not clean. Not cinematic. Wood splintered, the lock—a cheap thing his
mother had installed herself, laughing, saying some doors should stay open —tore free and skittered across the porch into snow that swallowed sound before it could travel.
Adrian stumbled through. Darkness. Silence. The smell of cedar and abandonment and something
underneath.
Lavender.
Faint. His mother's ghost pressed into the walls.
He didn't call out. There was no one to call.
The quilt was on the couch. Folded. Waiting.
He grabbed it. Pressed his face in. Inhaled.
And froze.
Because underneath the lavender, underneath the cedar, underneath the memory of a woman who had read by this fire while he slept—
Blood.
The stain was on the reverse side. Brown. Old.
