The storm that night was not just weather; it was a foreshadowing. Rain lashed against the windows of the old Victorian estate on the outskirts of the city, sounding like handfuls of gravel thrown by an angry god. Inside, the house was silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock that had measured time for three generations.
Evelyn, seventy years old, sat in her reading chair. She was a woman of small stature, with silver hair tied back in a sensible bun and hands that, despite their age, were steady as she held her herbal tea. To the outside world, she was just a retiree, a quiet widow who tended to her roses and donated anonymously to the local library.
The heavy oak front door didn’t ring; it thudded. A weak, desperate sound, barely audible over the wind.
Evelyn set her tea down. Her instincts, honed by forty years of navigating shark-filled corporate waters before her retirement, flared instantly. She didn’t walk; she moved with a quickness that belied her age.
She pulled the heavy door open. The wind screamed into the hallway, bringing with it a figure soaked to the bone, shivering violently.
It was Sarah. Her daughter.
