It's so soft that at first, I think I've imagined it. But then, it happens again—slow, methodical, and unmistakable. My heart skips a beat as I approach the stairs, my palm outstretched, searching for the light switch on the wall. I swear I left it on before sleeping. The house is quiet, too quiet, except for the ticking of the old clock in the foyer. I glance toward the hallway. The knock comes again, this time a bit louder.

I don't move immediately. My mind races through possibilities. Could it be the wind? A branch scraping against the house? But it doesn't sound like that. It sounds too deliberate. I swallow the growing knot of unease in my throat. I find the switch and turn the light on, instantly locating the broken lamp below.

I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself as I move down one step at a time. The knock echoes again. The sound crawls under my skin. I pause at the top of the stairs, staring down into the darkness below. The entryway is dimly lit, but from here, I can't see the front door.

I grip the banister with a cold, clammy hand. My breathing is shallow, and each creak of the floor beneath me sounds unnaturally loud. At the bottom of the staircase, I pause, feeling the coolness of the tiled floor against my socks. The knocking has stopped, but the house feels alive, like it's holding its breath, waiting for something.

I kneel carefully, my eyes darting toward the door. The uneasy silence presses in around me. Was the knock coming from outside? I inspect the broken lamp. 

My fingers hover above the pieces of glass, suddenly aware of the oppressive stillness. The hallway is dim, the shadows darker than they should be. I feel like I'm being watched.

The knocking returns. This time it's louder. Closer even.

I whip my head toward the door, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I stand, shakily, my eyes fixed on the brass handle. I reach for the knob, but I hesitate, fingers barely brushing the cool metal.

From behind me, I hear the soft pad of footsteps.

It's grandma.

She's standing there in the hallway, her face half-hidden in the shadows. She doesn't move, just stares at me, her expression unreadable. 

"Grandma?" I whisper.

She doesn't respond at first. Her eyes flicker to the broken lamp on the floor, and her mouth tightens into a thin line. "What happened here?" she asks, but her voice sounds... different. 

"I—I don't know," I stammer. "I heard a noise... the lamp—it must have fallen." But even as I say it, I know how ridiculous it sounds. A lamp doesn't just slide off a table like that.

Grandma steps forward, and that's when I notice it—she's barefoot. My stomach drops as she walks over the shards of glass without even looking down. I flinch, wanting to tell her to stop, to put on shoes, but the words catch in my throat.

She steps right onto the broken glass.

A soft crunch under her heel. I gasp, horrified. Blood begins to bead at her bare feet, and still, she doesn't seem to notice. She bends down stiffly to pick up a piece of the shattered bulb. Her movements are slow, unnervingly mechanical. When she straightens up, she holds the broken fragment in her palm, staring at it like she's trying to remember something.

"Grandma, you're bleeding!" I find my voice too late.

Grandma looks down at her foot, then back at me, and for a brief second, I see something flicker in her eyes. Something dark. It vanishes as quickly as it came. She wipes her palm against her dress, smearing a streak of blood on the fabric, and frowns, almost as if the injury is an annoyance, nothing more.

"I'll handle it."

"You're hurting yourself," I grab her wrist gently, trying to stop her, but she yanks her arm away from me.

I'm not sure what I fear more—the mysterious knocks at the door or the change in my grandmother.  And the more I watch her, the more I question my judgement. Things aren't bad here. They're worse.

They let us leave the ER in the morning. We make a stop for breakfast on the way back though I doubt either of us have the appetite. I'm still reluctant to leave her alone so we pick the food up in the car. When I lean over to put the brown bag of food near her shoes, I notice dried blood from last night. Her eyes are closed and I suspect she's fallen asleep. Hospital beds aren't always the most comfortable. Especially while getting stitches. Mom still hasn't responded to any of my calls. It's starting to piss me off too. She should have been there. 

When we get home, I help her to the sofa. Maybe when she's feeling better, I'll shift her upstairs. Walking on stitches must hurt like hell but she doesn't complain. Her silence just makes me feel more awful. I shouldn't have frozen up like that last night. 

The glass is still on the floor when we return. I'd somehow imagined it would clean up by itself. But instead, I have to figure out how to clean up this awful mess. I find the broom in the closet, stuffed with old and new cleaning supplies. My fingers leave an imprint on the dust covered handle. Without a functional light in the closet, I manage to find it after some digging. Inside, there's a small radio too. It reminds of me grandad. Afterall, it's his radio. Collecting dust for months.

I set the plates on the coffee table, next to the radio. "The kettle is on."

Grandma doesn't open her eyes which reminds me of the pain killers sitting in my purse. I grab the broom as I walk back into the hallway, brushing the pieces into a pile. Some of the dried blood rubs off, sticking to the ends of the broom. I find polythene bags stuffed into a bigger polythene bag behind the kitchen door. 

Crouching down, I brush the lamp into the bag and from here, I can see grandma reach for a plate in the living room. 

We watch the news as we sip tea. Our dirty plates sit on top of each other on the coffee table. Outside, the mail man drops mail into grandma's mail slot. It clamps shut and I watch his orange hair disappear from the sofa's view of the window. 

"Police have just recovered a female body at Lyme Regis. They have yet to identify the body," a lady, cramped in a blue blazer speaks into a microphone.

"That's awful," grandma mumbles, taking a bite of pie.

"Poor family," I add, folding my legs under me. "Isn't that the canal near the high street?"

"I'm not sure."

"How's your foot?" 

She's avoided talking about it until now.

"It's fine," she meets my eyes, as if to tell me, drop it. But that's hard to do when you need keep an eye on your clumsy grandmother. 

"Again," I adjust myself on the sofa. "I'm sorry about your lamp."

She moves her attention to the TV. "I hated that ugly thing."

"Huh. Anyway, do you think we have batteries? For this."

I lift the radio by the top, rotating it to access the battery compartment. Sliding off the lid, I'm unsure of what kind of batteries it'll take.

"In the upstairs storage. Your grandfather used to handle things like that."

I wonder if I should just order them online and save myself time trying to dig through his old things. Grandma looks uninterested, a little bothered too. So I try not to speak again. The awkward silence soon becomes a peaceful quiet and I stretch out on the sofa, watching the naked branches outside and rest the radio on my stomach. On the TV, they talk more about Lyme Regis. I remember the place. More than I'd like to. I glance at grandma, paranoid she'll see sense it from me. But that's impossible. She has no clue of the places I went as a teenager. Sneaking out during summer school. The double life I had while I stayed under her roof. I shift back to the trees. The pale empty sky. She has no idea at all.

A half hour later, I stand up with the plates. Grandma has been distracted by the news.

"Jeez, it's a child?" I lean sideways, stretching my back.

"Girl should've known better to be alone outside."

"Well, was she alone?"

Grandma's eyebrows are knitted together but she doesn't reply. 

"I hope it was an accident. The poor family must be devastated."

"Should have known better than to go playing near the canal," she adds.

"We don't know how it happened."

"Yeah well," she flips her hand, dismissing the conversation. I carry the plates into the kitchen and grab the bottle of dishwashing soap. It's strange hearing grandma be so apathetic. I'd never noticed that about her. I guess I hadn't noticed a lot because when I think of her, I think of grandad. I think of how he never would have said those things.

As I approach the canal, it was easy to spot where the body had been found. Yellow police tape flutters in the bitter wind, behind a barricade that seems fragile against the weight of what has happened. A few officers mill around behind the barrier, their movements quick and efficient, but the tension hangs in the air. I fold my arms against the cold and stand still, just watching.

The air is biting, and the water in the canal looks dead, reflecting nothing but the dull gray sky. A crowd has gathered—bystanders whispering conspiracies. It's a grim Saturday in a town where things like this just don't happen.

I scan the crowd, my mind drifting, until I catch sight of someone. A tall man, dark hair, dark eyes. He stands at the edge of the crowd, dressed in black, watching me. His gaze feels too familiar, but I can't place it right away. I stare, trying to figure out where I've seen him before.

Realizing how long I've been looking, I quickly turn my eyes back to the police tape, feeling my cheeks flush. Where do I know him from? I can't shake the feeling that I've seen him before. Against my better judgment, I glance his way again.

And then I see him walking toward me.

Shit. My stomach tightens. I curse myself under my breath, but there's no time to walk away now.

"Nora?" His voice is unsure, like he can't quite believe it's me. I force myself to turn and face him. He looks thoughtful for a second, as if he's piecing together a puzzle, then gives me a small, uncertain smile.

"And so the ghost of Nora Albert returns, eh?"

I let out a short, awkward laugh. I didn't expect to ever see him again. My face burns, betraying every emotion. The shock, the embarrassment, the regret. He's older now, but still so much the same.

"Elijah," I manage to say.