In the deep woods off the old logging road, where the telephone wires stopped and the pines swallowed sound whole, a house stood watching.

Black paint faded to gray in patches. Gingerbread trim curled at the edges like dried flower petals. The porch sagged just slightly, as if the house itself had grown tired of holding up its own secrets.

Smoke curled from one chimney—thin, purposeful, the color of sage and cedar burning.

From inside, through the warped glass of the narrow windows, candlelight flickered in the kitchen. It was that hour between afternoon and evening when the sun got low enough to turn everything gold and long-shadowed, but not yet gone. That hour when the house seemed most alive.

A screen door groaned somewhere deep in the house, then fell quiet.

The yard was still. The road was empty. But smoke kept rising. Someone was waiting.