The door of Hollow Moon Manor opened before Skye touched the key.
The house breathed around her, stone and shadow and memory pressing close as if it had been waiting. Portraits of red-haired women watched from the walls. The grand staircase curved upward like a question she wasn’t ready to answer.
She had come for a year.
She had inherited a legacy.
She had not expected the house to feel alive.
Or the two impossibly still men waiting by the fire.
Some houses remember.
Hollow Moon Manor remembers everything.