It came down in sheets, turning the gravel drive to mud and painting the old estate in shades of grey. The windows of Y/n's room rattled with each gust of wind, and the fire in the hearth crackled weakly, as if it too were tired of the weather.

Her father had been gone since morning—called away on business, he'd said—and the house felt emptier than usual. The servants moved like ghosts through the halls, and the only sounds were the drumming of rain and the creaking of old timber.

Then, just past noon, there was a knock.

Not at the front door. That would have been proper. Expected.

This knock came from the window.

Y/n turned. A face pressed against the glass, pale as bone, framed by dark, rain-slicked hair. A woman. Young. Beautiful. Her lips moved, but the storm swallowed her voice.

She was drenched. Shivering. Her eyes—pale, almost luminous—met Y/n's through the streaming glass.

She raised a hand. Knocked again.