Olivia Anderson
The door stayed shut.
I didn’t move my hand from the lock. My fingers hovered there, trembling just enough that the metal felt colder every second I waited.
The pad of my thumb rested against the little ridged knob, but I couldn’t make myself turn it. Not while the silence outside stretched thinner and thinner, like a thread about to snap.
My breathing sounded too loud in the small space between my mouth and the wood. Each inhale dragged in the faint scent of pine polish from the hallway floor, mixed with something sharper…blood? Sweat? Fur? I couldn’t tell anymore. My nose kept twitching, trying to sort it, failing.
I pressed my forehead to the door again. The surface was smooth, almost soothing, except for the tiny imperfections where varnish had bubbled years ago.
