The windows rattled softly, even though the wind had died hours ago.
And the grandfather clock in the hall, which should not have been running at all in that cold house, ticked once. Then again.
The night before, Thomas Grayson had felt the storm in his bones long before the first snowflake touched the hill.
At fifty-two, he’d learned the language of machines and ledgers, of mill schedules and cotton shipments. He could tell by the smell of river water whether the wheelhouse would freeze by morning. He could hear a loom’s complaint and know which gear needed oil.
But this was different.
This was the sensation of being watched by something patient enough to wait out generations.
He stood in his study on the second floor, fingers tight on the windowsill, staring into the gray afternoon as it gathered itself into a blizzard. The valley below was already softening into white, fields losing their edges, the road from town becoming a pale thread.
Behind him, the house made its usual noises: the settling of timber, the sigh of a draft, the distant clatter of pans from the kitchen. Familiar sounds. Comfort sounds.
And yet his stomach stayed knotted, as if familiarity itself had become suspicious.
“Thomas.” Eleanor’s voice found him gently, the way it always did when she was trying not to startle him.
