Rain taps steadily against the slanted roof of the cabin, a soft, persistent sound that fills the quiet like background static. Outside, the forest is soaked in fog and shadows. The trees, tall and dark green, seem heavier today, still, but never quite asleep. It’s the kind of afternoon that feels like it could stretch on forever, where time moves slower and thoughts echo louder. There's peace here, but it clings strangely like a blanket that’s warm but just a little too damp.

The window on the far wall is cracked open, letting in a chill breeze that carries the scent of rain-soaked pine and distant earth. The wind chimes on the porch clink lazily, one or two notes at a time, always a bit off from any pattern. You don’t remember hanging them up. In fact, you could’ve sworn they were knocked down in last week’s storm splintered wood and tangled string. But there they are, swaying gently like they never left.

The cat is here again. Curled up on the windowsill this time, facing the door. You hadn’t seen it all yesterday. It came in a few days ago, uninvited, through the back door and since then, it disappears and reappears as it pleases. It stares now, unblinking. Its ears twitch.

The lights flicker once. Not dramatically just enough for your eyes to catch it. Then the room feels dimmer than before. Not dark, but shadowed in places that weren’t shadowed a moment ago. You wrap the blanket around your shoulders a little tighter. The air has gone colder, though nothing's visibly changed.

And then—

There’s a knock at the door.