POV: Seraphine
The field was empty again.
He hadn't come.
Seraphine stood at the threshold, her bare feet inches from the line where the invisible wall held her in. The lock throbbed faintly beside her, humming like a heartbeat—hers or the house's, she couldn't tell anymore.
He was out there somewhere. She knew it. She had seen it in the way he lingered, in the way he stared like he saw more than he should. She couldn't bear it anymore—this waiting, this watching. She had to try.
Let him see you, she told herself. Just once.
She stepped back and lit a candle. One of the old ones, left behind from another life. The flame trembled in her hand. Then she walked to the uppermost window—the one he always looked toward—and set the candle on the sill.
The house didn't stop her.
Not yet.
So she did more.
With shaking fingers, she cracked the pane open. Just a sliver. Enough for wind to slip through.
Enough for her voice.
She leaned forward. The air was sharp and cold and free.
"Come back," she whispered. "Please..."
Then the house screamed.
Not aloud. Not in any way a person could hear. But inside her. It seized her lungs like fists. It shoved her back from the window. The candle flared—and then snuffed out, dropping her into choking darkness.
She fell to her knees, gasping, hands over her ears though there was no sound.
The house was angry.
The house had let her watch.
It had not given her permission to ask.
Tears stung her eyes as she crawled back from the window, the taste of smoke in her mouth. She knew now. Knew the rules were changing.
And still… she would try again.