The attic was silent except for the steady rhythm of Elias’s breathing. He crouched low, peering through a small crack in the wooden paneling of the hidden passage that overlooked the kitchen.
She was there again.
The woman who lived in this house—his ghost, his constant, his unknowing savior. She stood by the stove, her back turned to him, humming softly as she waited for the kettle to boil. Elias watched, as he always did, unseen. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulder in soft waves, shifting slightly as she moved. The dim kitchen light highlighted her delicate features—the curve of her jaw, the way her eyelashes flickered when she blinked. She wore a dark sweater, its high collar covering her neck, sleeves long enough to hide part of her hands. A sharp whistle cut through the air as the kettle reached its boiling point. She turned quickly, shutting off the heat, then reached for a ceramic mug. Elias watched her pour the steaming water over a tea bag, the scent of chamomile drifting faintly through the cracks in the walls.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his weight in the narrow crawlspace.
A mistake.
The old wood beneath him groaned.
He froze, breath catching in his throat.
The sound was soft, almost insignificant, but in the quiet of the house, it carried. Her humming stopped. Slowly, she turned, her light gray-brown eyes scanning the room. Elias remained utterly still. She took a step back from the counter. Her expression was puzzled, but not fearful. She wasn’t thinking of a man hidden within her walls—no, she was thinking of something far more mundane. The wind. The pipes. She exhaled and shook her head, dismissing the noise. She picked up her mug and took a slow sip. Elias let out the breath he had been holding, his pulse still hammering in his ears. That had been too close. Yet even as logic screamed at him to retreat, to be more careful, he remained where he was, watching as she leaned against the counter, sipping her tea, humming once more.