They walked up to the faded front door, the paint chipped and curling like old paper. Weeds pushed up through cracks in the sidewalk, and the shutters on the windows sagged on their hinges.
Rafa knocked twice, sharp and quick. They waited. No sound came from inside.
Isabella reached for the handle, her palm sweating against the cool metal. It turned easily, and the door swung inward with a slow creak that made her skin prickle.
"This is a bad idea," Rafa muttered, stepping in right behind her and glancing toward the stairs.
"Probably," she said under her breath, though she didn't slow down.
Inside, the air was stale and heavy with dust. The living room furniture sat under white sheets that sagged over the shapes beneath, like the outlines of people frozen in place. But not everything was abandoned.
A coffee cup rested on the kitchen table, the rim still faintly steaming. Beside it sat a plate dotted with breadcrumbs, as if someone had just stepped away.
