The stillness feels staged, like a held breath pretending to be calm. Chalk dust hangs in the air, a dry taste on my tongue; burnt sage settles into the beams and fabric like a blessing that knows it isn’t enough. Grams draws lines on plaster with a steadiness her hands don’t have anymore. I trace after her with a damp rag to seal the strokes, pressing the curves into the grain until the wall takes them like a brand.
A lamp flickers—once, then again. Not warning. Strain. The sound the wards make has changed this week; tonight they hum on the same beat as my heart. It isn’t only that I can feel them. They can feel me back. The farmhouse has my pulse.
I set the rag down and tip my head, listening. The hum threads up the stairs and under the floorboards as if there were wires in the old bon
