The morning began in silence.
Mist clung to the grounds of Bly Manor, thick and low, curling around the grass and creeping up the stone walls like pale fingers searching for warmth. Ivy stood at the window, her breath ghosting the glass as she stared down at the empty driveway. Somewhere in the fog, a crow landed on the gatepost. It cawed once—sharp, deliberate—then vanished into the white.
The world felt paused.
Waiting.
Kate's voice drifted faintly from downstairs, low and murmuring, mingled with the soft clink of porcelain. Tea with Mrs. Grose. Ivy hadn't joined them. She couldn't bring herself to move. The tight feeling in her stomach wasn't hunger—it was anticipation, coiled and restless. Flora hadn't come knocking like she had yesterday. The house felt different this morning. Quieter.
As if it knew something Ivy didn't.
She turned from the window and smoothed the sheets on her bed. The fabric smelled of lavender and dust, clean but ancient, like something preserved too long. Sleep had barely touched her. All night, the cracked mirror across the room had caught moonlight, splitting it into warped shapes that crawled along the walls.
At exactly ten, the sound of an engine cut through the hush.
Ivy froze.
From the top of the stairs, she watched.
A black car rolled slowly up the drive, its dark shape emerging from the mist like a thought made real. Gravel crunched beneath its tires. The engine died. Before Ivy could breathe, footsteps pounded down the hallway behind her.
"He's here! He's here!"
Flora flew past, her excitement too loud for the house. Kate stepped out of the sitting room, eyebrows lifting. "That must be her brother."
Mrs. Grose was already moving toward the doors, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her posture was straighter than usual. Guarded.
The car door opened.
A boy stepped out.
Tall. Too tall. His dark coat hung loosely on his frame, and the wind tugged at his curly hair, leaving it untamed. He didn't rush. He didn't look around in awe. He stood still for a moment, hands in his pockets, chin slightly raised—like someone already aware of being observed.
"Miles!" Flora shrieked.
He knelt and lifted her into a hug, spinning her once. "Little beetle," he said softly, smiling. "Still noisy, I see."
Then his gaze flicked upward.
Toward the house.
Toward the stairs.
Toward Ivy.
Just for a heartbeat.
Ivy stepped back as if burned and turned away, retreating down the hall before she could be seen. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
They met an hour later.
The kitchen smelled of apples and bread. Kate unpacked groceries, humming absently. Mrs. Grose worked at the counter, knife steady, rhythmic. Flora sat cross-legged on the floor, coloring.
And Miles sat at the table.
He looked up when Ivy entered. His expression didn't change—not quite welcoming, not unfriendly. His eyes were dark, heavy with something unreadable. Ivy felt the strange pull again, the urge to stare and the instinct to look away fighting in her chest.
"This is Ivy," Kate said brightly. "My younger sister."
Miles stood. Slowly. Politely. "Pleasure," he said, offering his hand.
Ivy took it for a brief second. His skin was warm. His grip barely there, like he wasn't fully holding on.
"I didn't know you had a sister," he said, eyes flicking from Kate back to Ivy. "How long are you staying?"
"Just a while," Ivy answered.
His lips curved—not quite a smile. "Good."
Then he sat, just like that, the moment dismissed.
Kate frowned faintly. Mrs. Grose said nothing.
By afternoon, the house felt tighter.
Ivy escaped into the garden, the air sharp and damp. The paths wound between hedges and dying flowers, the trees leaning inward as though listening. Flora skipped beside her, tapping a stick against trunks and stones.
"I missed him," Flora said suddenly. "It was boring without Miles. I hope he stays this time."
"Why was he sent away?" Ivy asked—and instantly wished she hadn't.
Flora didn't look at her. "Grown-ups don't understand boys," she said lightly. "Especially ones like him."
Ivy slowed. "Like him how?"
Flora shrugged. Then she looked up, smiling far too brightly. "He doesn't like rules. And sometimes he says things that make people nervous."
"What kind of things?"
"Games!" Flora shouted, darting behind a bush. "Hide and seek!"
The answer echoed long after Flora vanished.
That night, the dining room glowed with candlelight again. Shadows stretched across the long table. Flora talked endlessly, her voice filling every gap—about frogs, and sticks, and the game she almost won.
Miles barely spoke.
He watched.
Sometimes Kate. Sometimes Mrs. Grose.
But most often, Ivy.
Not openly. Not boldly. Just quiet glances, slipping away the moment she turned. And yet she always felt them—like a presence lingering just behind her shoulder.
When Flora mentioned losing a doll under the stairs, Miles smirked.
"I told you not to take them there," he said casually. "That place is for bones and shadows."
Mrs. Grose's knife stopped mid-slice. "That's enough."
Miles raised his hands, mock-innocent. "Just a story."
Flora giggled. "I like bones and shadows."
Ivy didn't finish her food.
That night, she woke to footsteps.
Slow. Bare. Moving down the hall.
Her heart slammed as she sat up, listening.
The sound faded.
Just the house settling, she told herself. Old beams. Old walls.
Still shaking, Ivy rose and crossed to the mirror. The crack looked wider now, deeper, as if the glass had split further in her sleep. She leaned closer, studying her reflection.
And for one terrible moment—
Someone stood behind her.
She spun around.
Nothing.
Only the quiet room.
Only Bly Manor, breathing softly in the dark.