The air in the living room turned heavy, thick with the scent of damp wood and smoke. Emma blinked hard, her heart thudding against her ribs. The reflection in the glass cabinet was gone now — or at least, it looked that way.
Luke was already moving, flashlight cutting through the dark.
"Probably just a trick of the light," he said, but his tone was too sharp, too quick.
Emma swallowed. "It wasn't the light. It was—"
A sound interrupted her.
Not footsteps. Not the wind.
A whisper.
She turned toward the mirror above the fireplace. The glass shimmered faintly, and for a brief moment, she could have sworn she heard her own voice — echoing softly, from inside it.
"You shouldn't have come back."
Emma stumbled backward, her hands trembling. "Luke—"
He spun toward her, eyes narrowing. "What did you hear?"
"You didn't hear that?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the room, grabbed a dusty throw blanket, and tossed it over the mirror. "Old house. Old pipes. Don't start imagining things."
But as he turned away, she caught a flicker in his expression — something like recognition.
Emma's voice shook. "You knew, didn't you? That something's wrong here."
Luke looked at her for a long time, rain sliding down the window behind him like slow tears.
"I told you I didn't remember anything from that night," he said quietly.
Then he stepped closer, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"But I lied."
Emma's breath caught. "Why?"
"Because," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "the thing in the fire — it didn't want me to tell you."