Lyra had expected the Hollow to be cold, but she hadn't expected it to feel alive.
By the time she unpacked her suitcase in one of the upstairs rooms, the sky outside had darkened into a heavy, colorless gray. The air was damp, and every corner of the house seemed to carry its own draft. She lit a candle, then another, but the flames flickered wildly, shivering against the slightest stir of air.
Her room smelled of dust and old wood. A bed with a sagging mattress sat pushed against the wall, its quilt moth-eaten. The wallpaper had once been a pale blue, but it was faded now, like bruised skin. She sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the house groan as if it were shifting its weight.
She tried to tell herself it was only wood expanding in the night. But when the floorboards creaked directly outside her door, her breath hitched.
"Hello?" she called. Her voice was soft, uncertain.
No answer. Only silence, thicker than before.
Lyra stood, crossing the room to lock the door. The metal was stiff with age, but it clicked into place. She leaned against it for a long moment, forcing herself to breathe.
---
The night stretched endlessly.
She tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Every sound sharpened in the dark—the distant ticking of pipes, the whisper of leaves brushing against the windows, and once, something that almost sounded like footsteps pacing below her.
When sleep finally came, it was shallow, broken. She dreamed of mirrors that breathed and shadows that smiled. When she startled awake, her candle had burned down to a puddle of wax, and her room was drowning in darkness.
---
Morning came pale and sluggish. Mist still clung to the windows, blurring the view of the trees outside. Lyra dressed quickly, pulled her coat tight, and decided she couldn't stay cooped up in the Hollow all day. She needed supplies, and more than that, she needed people—voices other than her own to remind her the world hadn't shrunk down to this house.
The walk to the village was shorter than she remembered, though her feet sank into the damp soil with every step. When she reached the main road, she found a row of crooked houses, their roofs patched with tin and moss. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys.
Her first stop was a small shop tucked between two cottages. A rusted bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle as she stepped inside.
The shop smelled of tobacco and dried herbs. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with jars, candles, and packets of flour. Behind the counter stood a man with thinning hair and sharp, watchful eyes. He greeted her with a nod, but his hands froze mid-motion when she laid her coins on the counter.
"You're from the Hollow," he said flatly.
Lyra hesitated. "I… inherited it, yes."
His expression didn't soften. "Be careful up there."
She gave a small, polite smile. "I'll try."
He slid the candles and a loaf of bread across the counter without another word. His eyes followed her as she left, and she felt the weight of his stare long after the door shut behind her.
---
Outside, two children stood at the edge of the street. They were whispering, their wide eyes fixed on her. When Lyra met their gaze, they darted behind a fence, giggling nervously.
An older woman nearby, hunched beneath a shawl, clucked her tongue. "Should've left that place alone, girl," she muttered as Lyra passed. "Nothing good ever comes out of the Hollow."
Lyra's steps faltered. "What do you mean?"
The woman's eyes were pale and cloudy, her voice little more than a rasp. "It takes what it wants. Always has."
Before Lyra could ask anything else, the woman turned away, shuffling down the street.
---
Lyra was still reeling from the words when someone called out, "Hey!"
She turned to see a boy leaning against the side of the bakery. He was maybe a year or two older than her, with brown hair that fell messily into his eyes. He wore a loose shirt rolled up at the sleeves and carried a basket under one arm.
"You must be new here," he said. His voice was warm, but there was a flicker of curiosity behind it.
Lyra shifted the bag in her arms. "Something like that."
He grinned. "New, but not exactly welcome, huh? Don't mind them. Half the village is afraid of its own shadow."
"Or of the Hollow," Lyra murmured.
That seemed to amuse him. "Fair enough. I'm Rowan, by the way."
"Lyra."
Rowan adjusted the basket. "Well, Lyra, if you ever need someone to show you around—or someone who doesn't think you're cursed—you know where to find me."
He gave her a quick nod before slipping into the bakery, leaving her blinking in surprise.
---
By the time Lyra returned to the Hollow, the sun was already beginning to sink behind the trees. She trudged up the driveway, clutching her bag tightly. The house loomed in the distance, silent, its windows dark.
But as she drew closer, her breath caught.
One of the upstairs curtains shifted. Just slightly, like someone had brushed against it.
Her skin prickled. She hadn't left any window open. And she hadn't invited anyone inside.
For a moment, she stood frozen, the bag cutting into her hands. Then she forced herself forward, step by step, until she reached the door.
The Hollow seemed to wait, patient and hungry.