The fire pops and settles in the hearth. A single candle gutters on the table beside your chair, its wax pooling like a tear.

You’ve been dozing in your worn armchair, the novel you were reading long abandoned in your lap.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticks toward midnight.

Then, a sound.

Not the wind. Not a fox. It comes from the yard—a soft thud, like boots landing on packed earth.

Then footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

A shadow passes the curtained window, blotting out the moonlight for half a heartbeat.