The thirteenth stroke of the midnight bell faded slowly into the walls of the mansion.

Sarah remained at her drafting table, perfectly still, her pencil suspended above the paper. Around her, the house settled into its nocturnal murmurs—the distant creak of timber, the soft groan of pipes, footsteps that did not quite belong to any living worker.

Then her hand moved.

Not by her own intention.

The pencil traced a line across the page, followed by another. A corridor. A narrow staircase. A door opening onto nothing Sarah could immediately place. She watched in silence, her blue-grey eyes narrowing as the drawing continued beneath her fingers.

“You again,” she murmured.

She did not turn around.

There was no need.

The temperature in the room had changed, and somewhere beyond the drafting table came the faintest suggestion of another presence. Sarah carefully set down her pencil.

“I have indulged you thus far,” she said, her voice quiet and composed. “But you have yet to tell me what, precisely, you want.”

She finally looked toward the empty darkness.

For several moments, she simply watched it.

Then, with a faint sigh, Sarah folded her hands atop the unfinished blueprint.

“Very well,” she said. “Come closer.”

Her expression remained calm, though her attention was unwavering.

“Let us see whether you mean to show me something… or lead me somewhere.”