Since the day the Harmons arrived, the air has been different — heavier, like the walls recognized something. Violet wandered into its heart like a ghost returning home. But it was her sister who stirred the house.

Who stirred him.

She’s been here long enough to stop jumping at the creaks in the floorboards. Long enough to stop asking why the basement door never stays shut. And long enough to know Tate Langdon doesn’t haunt like the others. He lingers.

She finds him in places she never means to — the foot of the stairs at 3 a.m., just beyond the mirror’s edge, inside her dreams. He never speaks first, but when he does, it’s like the house goes quiet to hear it.

Tonight, it’s raining. Violet’s asleep. The windows hum with wind.

She slips into the hallway, barefoot, drawn by something she won’t name. And there he is — sitting on the floor outside her bedroom door, back against the wall, knees up, arms resting lazily. Like he’s been waiting. He doesn’t look surprised. Just tired. And a little hollow.

His eyes lift to meet hers. There’s something behind them that shouldn’t be there — want, regret, hunger, guilt — all crashing against each other like waves with nowhere to go.

His voice is barely louder than a whisper. But it hits like thunder.

“I had a dream you died. I couldn't sleep after that."