The days at Bly Manor moved differently than anywhere else. Time stretched like the hallways themselves—long, echoing, heavy with silence. Ivy tried to fill it: she fed the birds with Flora, listened to Kate's voice reading softly in the sitting room, wandered the garden paths alone when the walls pressed too close.
But ever since Miles returned, the quiet had shifted. It wasn't just silence. It was… watching. Something that traced her spine before her mind could catch it.
That morning, Flora had begged her to walk the grounds.
Kate stayed behind with Mrs. Grose, organizing linens and polishing silver. Ivy almost stayed too—but Flora's bright grin tugged at her chest, light enough to make her feel like something small, important, would slip past if she didn't go.
They followed the cracked stone path that curved between hedges and weathered statues, the air damp with mist. Miles came with them.
"Have you seen the lake yet?" Flora chirped, skipping over a bed of fallen leaves. "It's lovely. But cold. I think a girl drowned there once."
"Flora," Miles said softly, eyes on the path ahead. "Not something to say before breakfast."
Flora waved it off. "Just a story, right, Ivy?"
Ivy swallowed, uncertain. "I… hadn't heard that one."
Miles walked beside her, quiet. Hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. The leaves crunched under his boots, every step deliberate. And Ivy noticed, as she always did, the way his gaze flicked toward her just as she glanced sideways—expression unreadable, like he was trying to map something inside her.
"Do you like it here?" he asked suddenly.
Ivy hesitated. "It's… different."
"Different good or different bad?"
She said nothing.
A small smile curved his lips, barely there, and he looked ahead again. "Most people don't last here."
Flora hummed, spinning ahead in her own world.
The lake emerged suddenly, a sheet of silver under a pale sky. Trees leaned over the water, their reflections jagged and dark. Ivy stopped at the edge, arms folded, shivering despite the mild air. The place felt wrong. Too still. Like it remembered things it shouldn't.
Miles lingered a few steps behind, voice low. "Do you ever feel like the house is alive?"
Ivy turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"Like it watches. Like it decides who stays… and who doesn't." He crouched, plucked a flat stone, and sent it skimming across the lake. "I used to feel it all the time. Still do, sometimes."
Ivy shivered. "You think a house can… do that?"
He straightened, eyes dark. "I think everything that's loved—or hated—leaves something behind."
Flora twirled behind them, laughing, pretending to be a swan.
"She doesn't see it," Ivy murmured.
Miles said nothing. "She doesn't."
That evening, Ivy curled on the couch in the library, a blanket over her knees, a dusty book open but unread. Thoughts spiraled, circling what she didn't want to name.
Kate sat beside her. "You okay?"
Ivy nodded, though it wasn't true.
"I saw you with Miles this morning," Kate said.
Ivy glanced up. "What about it?"
Kate shrugged. "He's… unusual. Charming, quiet. I don't know yet what to make of him."
"He's just a boy," Ivy said flatly.
Kate tilted her head. "That's what I thought. But… the way he looks at people…"
Ivy felt her stomach twist.
"Don't be paranoid," she whispered.
"I'm not," Kate said softly. "Just… careful."
Dinner was tense. Mrs. Grose barely spoke, only replying when addressed. Flora jabbered about a new doll she'd named Lily. Ivy pushed her food around, lost in the shadows cast by candlelight. Kate asked Miles about school.
"Dreadful," he said, flat. "I'm done with it."
"You dropped out?" Kate asked.
"Not officially. But they made it clear I'm not welcome back."
Ivy's brow furrowed. "Why?"
He shrugged, lips tilting in that small, faint smile. "You'd have to ask them."
And then his eyes met hers. Held them. Even across the table, Ivy felt the weight, like gravity had shifted just for her.
Mrs. Grose cleared her throat. "Some places aren't meant for certain people. But Bly has always welcomed the children back. Home, even if not perfect."
Miles tilted his head. "Perfect's overrated."
Later, Ivy lay awake again. The wind pushed against her window. Moonlight flickered across the cracked mirror. She wrapped the blanket tighter.
Then—soft. Tentative. A knock.
Heart hammering, she rose and crept to the door. Bare feet silent on the floorboards. She opened it a crack.
The hallway was empty.
Yet something lay there.
A single white lily.