Emily sat by the window, her fingers tracing the glass as raindrops raced to the bottom. The storm outside mirrored the chaos within her. Charlotte's presence lingered in the room like a ghost, her scent still clinging to the sheets, the echo of her laugh a haunting melody in Emily's mind.
They hadn't spoken since that night.
Emily pressed her forehead to the glass, her chest tight with longing. The world outside was drenched in gray, but her memories of Charlotte burned vivid and relentless. She remembered the way Charlotte's fingers had trembled when they intertwined with hers, the way her eyes had softened, filled with an emotion too fragile to name.
The bedroom door creaked open.
Emily turned, her breath catching. Charlotte stood there, her hair damp from the rain, her eyes wide and searching. She looked like she'd been crying.
"I can't stay away," Charlotte whispered, her voice raw. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
Emily rose from the chair, her heart hammering. "Neither can I."
They met in the middle of the room, a collision of fear and desire, guilt and love. Charlotte's hands found Emily's face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that spilled over her cheeks.
"I don't know how to stop loving you," Charlotte confessed, her voice shaking.
Emily closed her eyes, leaning into the touch. "Then don't."
The storm raged on, but inside the room, they were their own quiet hurricane — messy, destructive, and unstoppable.
The storm lingered for days, a relentless downpour that kept Emily and Charlotte wrapped in their fragile bubble of newfound honesty. But the world outside didn't stop, and neither did the people in it.
One afternoon, the rain finally eased, and a knock echoed through the house. Emily opened the door to find a girl standing there — soaked, shivering, and clutching a duffel bag.
"I'm Ivy," the girl said, her teeth chattering. "I... I was told I could stay here?"
Charlotte appeared behind Emily, her brow furrowing. "Stay here? By who?"
"Your mom," Ivy admitted, brushing wet hair from her face. She looked barely older than them, her eyes a striking shade of green that gleamed with exhaustion. "She said I could crash here while I figure things out."
Emily exchanged a look with Charlotte, tension thick in the air. Their mom had left for a work trip weeks ago without a word about a guest.
"Come in," Emily said cautiously, stepping aside.
Ivy slipped inside, dripping water onto the hardwood floor. She scanned the room, her gaze sharp and observant despite her obvious fatigue.
"You guys are sisters, right?" Ivy asked, peeling off her jacket.
Charlotte stiffened, her fingers curling into fists. "Yeah. Something like that."
Emily cleared her throat. "You can stay in the guest room. I'll get you some dry clothes."
As Emily disappeared upstairs, Charlotte lingered, watching Ivy carefully.
"Why are you really here?" Charlotte asked, voice low.
Ivy tilted her head, a slow smile tugging at her lips. "Maybe I'm running from something. Maybe I'm running toward something. Haven't decided yet."
Charlotte's pulse quickened. Something told her Ivy's arrival was no accident — and that their fragile world was about to shift in ways they couldn't yet imagine.
Over the next few days, Ivy settled into the house like she belonged there. She walked barefoot on the wooden floors, her presence quiet but undeniably sharp. She didn't offer much about herself, only brief hints — a mention of a broken relationship, a town she'd left behind, a life she didn't want to return to.
Emily watched her with curiosity, while Charlotte watched her with suspicion.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ivy sat cross-legged on the living room floor, flipping through a worn notebook. She didn't notice Emily standing in the doorway, or if she did, she didn't care.
"You draw?" Emily asked, stepping closer.
Ivy glanced up, her green eyes glinting in the dim light. She turned the notebook around, showing Emily a series of intricate sketches — storm clouds, crashing waves, and two figures standing beneath an umbrella.
Emily's breath hitched. The figures looked eerily familiar.
"I dream about people," Ivy said, voice quiet but weighted. "Sometimes before I meet them."
Charlotte, overhearing from the hallway, stepped into the room, her arms crossed. "What exactly are you running from, Ivy?"
Ivy's smile faded. She closed the notebook and set it aside. "Let's just say... I know what it's like to love someone you're not supposed to." She looked between them, her gaze lingering like she could see the invisible thread that connected them.
Emily's heart pounded. Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, her jaw clenched tight.
Ivy stood, stretching like a cat. "I'll be around if you ever want to talk about it," she said, her voice laced with something both knowing and kind.
And just like that, she disappeared into the shadows of the house, leaving Emily and Charlotte standing there, shaken and silent.
The rain returned that night, tapping against the windows like a persistent memory. Ivy sat alone in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea, her fingers wrapped around the mug like it was the only thing tethering her to the present.
Emily found her there, the glow of the stove light casting shadows across Ivy's face. She hesitated before sitting down, her curiosity outweighing her caution.
"You said you know what it's like," Emily whispered, careful not to wake Charlotte. "To love someone you're not supposed to. Who was it?"
Ivy traced the rim of her cup, her eyes distant. "Her name was Rae," she began, voice brittle. "We grew up together. She lived next door, and we did everything as a pair. But her family... they weren't like mine. They were strict, religious. The kind that prays love away."
Emily's heart clenched. She stayed silent, letting Ivy unravel at her own pace.
"We were sixteen when they caught us," Ivy continued, her lip trembling. "They sent her to a conversion camp. I tried to reach her, but it was like she disappeared. Her parents moved, changed their numbers. I... I never saw her again."
Emily reached across the table, her fingers brushing against Ivy's hand.
"I ran away a year later," Ivy admitted, her voice a raw wound. "Been drifting ever since. Every time I get close to someone, I can't help but think... what if I lose them too?"
Emily squeezed her hand, her chest aching for this girl who had lost so much. "You won't lose us," she promised.
From the hallway, Charlotte listened, her fingers pressed to her lips, tears slipping down her cheeks. The storm outside howled, but inside, something fragile and precious began to mend.
The storm lingered for days, and the house settled into an uneasy quiet. Emily and Charlotte tiptoed around Ivy, careful not to disturb the fragile trust that had blossomed after her confession.
But one night, the peace shattered.
A car pulled into the driveway, headlights slicing through the dark like knives. The three of them froze, tension rippling through the room. Ivy's face drained of color.
"No," she whispered, backing away from the window. "It can't be."
Emily and Charlotte exchanged worried glances. Charlotte grabbed a flashlight, her protective instincts kicking in. "Stay here," she ordered, heading for the door.
Emily stayed by Ivy's side, heart pounding. "Who is it?"
Ivy's hands shook. "Her brother. He used to follow us, watch us... He said if he ever saw me again, he'd—"
A loud knock echoed through the house, and Ivy flinched like she'd been struck.
Charlotte opened the door cautiously, the flashlight beam cutting through the rain. A tall figure stood there, face obscured by the hood of a rain-soaked jacket.
"I'm looking for Ivy," he said, voice low and cold.
Charlotte tightened her grip on the flashlight. "Why?"
The man lifted his head, revealing sharp, angry eyes that gleamed in the dim light. "Because she ruined my sister's life. And now... I'm here to ruin hers."
Behind Charlotte, Emily's heart raced. Ivy buried her face in her hands, her body trembling.
The storm outside raged on — but inside, a far more dangerous tempest was just beginning.
The man didn't push past the door. Not yet. He stood there, rain dripping from his jacket, staring at Charlotte like he could see straight through her.
Charlotte held her ground, even as her pulse hammered in her throat. "You need to leave," she said, her voice steady but low.
The man smiled — a slow, deliberate curl of his lips. "I'll be around," he said, stepping back into the storm. "Tell Ivy I said hello."
He disappeared into the shadows, but the damage was done.
Charlotte locked the door, her fingers trembling. She turned to find Emily holding Ivy on the couch, whispering soft reassurances as Ivy clung to her like a lifeline. The room smelled of tea and fear.
"He's gone," Charlotte said, though the words felt hollow. She dropped the flashlight on the table and sat down, rubbing her face with both hands.
Ivy wiped her eyes, her voice barely a whisper. "He'll come back. He always comes back."
Emily pressed a kiss to Ivy's hair. "We're not going to let him hurt you."
For the next few days, they barely left the house. Charlotte checked the locks every hour, pacing the living room like a caged animal. Emily tried to distract Ivy with books and old movies, but Ivy flinched at every creak of the floorboards.
At night, they slept in the same room — Charlotte on the armchair, Emily and Ivy curled up together on the bed. None of them talked about what might happen next.
And outside, the storm lingered, as if the sky itself couldn't decide whether to break or hold its breath.
The days blurred into one long stretch of waiting. The storm outside faded, but inside the house, the tension only grew sharper.
Charlotte started keeping a bat by the door. She barely slept, her eyes always flicking to the windows, searching for shadows that didn't belong.
Emily tried to keep things normal — cooking meals, tidying up — but her hands shook whenever she had to walk past a window. She caught herself jumping at the sound of the wind brushing against the siding.
Ivy became a ghost of herself. She barely spoke, barely ate, just sat curled on the couch, watching the door like she expected it to burst open at any moment.
Then, strange things started happening.
The garden gate, always latched, swung open in the mornings. Footprints appeared in the mud beneath the kitchen window. Once, Charlotte found a cigarette butt still smoldering on the porch, the ash curling up in lazy tendrils.
One night, around 3 a.m., the phone rang.
Emily answered, her voice tight. "Hello?"
Heavy breathing on the other end. Then a click.
They stopped sleeping altogether after that.
Ivy barely left Emily's side, her fingers constantly twisting the hem of her sweater. Charlotte patrolled the house like a soldier, muttering to herself.
And outside, the forest loomed — dark and still, like it was holding a secret.
The house became a prison of their own making.
Charlotte stopped leaving altogether. She patrolled every inch of the house like she expected the walls to crack open and swallow them whole. She muttered to herself as she paced, checking the locks over and over, fingers twitching around the bat she refused to put down.
Emily tried to hold things together, but her nerves frayed. She jumped at every noise — the groan of the floorboards, the ticking of the clock, the distant rustle of branches against the window. She caught herself crying in the kitchen, muffling her sobs so Ivy wouldn't hear.
And Ivy... Ivy stopped sleeping. She sat in the living room all night, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the front door like she was waiting for it to burst open. Her eyes grew hollow, sunken with exhaustion.
They started hearing things.
Whispers in the hallway when no one was there. Soft knocks on the windows that disappeared when they checked. Footsteps on the porch, slow and deliberate.
One night, Charlotte swore she saw a figure standing at the tree line. She didn't tell the others.
Then, Ivy found a note slipped under the door. Just a scrap of paper, damp from the rain, with four words scrawled in jagged, angry handwriting:
I'm already inside.
They tore the house apart after that — checking every closet, every crawlspace, every shadow. But they found nothing.
Emily didn't stop shaking for hours.
Ivy wouldn't let go of her hand.
Charlotte stayed by the door, gripping the bat so tightly her knuckles turned white, her chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths.
And the house, silent and still, seemed to breathe with them.
The next shock came at dawn.
Charlotte dozed off in the chair by the door, the bat resting across her lap, her head tilted back in restless, uneasy sleep. Emily and Ivy were curled up on the couch, holding each other in fragile silence. The house was quiet for the first time in days.
Until the scraping started.
A slow, deliberate sound — metal against wood.
Charlotte's eyes snapped open. She sat up, gripping the bat, heart pounding. The sound wasn't coming from the door.
It was coming from inside the house.
She followed it, her pulse a hammer in her ears. Down the hallway, past the kitchen, toward the basement door. The scraping grew louder, more frantic, like something clawing to get out.
The door was locked. Charlotte tested the handle, chest heaving.
Then the noise stopped.
She stood there, frozen, until she heard the whisper.
Right against the door.
Her name.
She stumbled back, nearly dropping the bat, then ran to wake the others. They barricaded the basement with furniture, but none of them spoke about it.
They didn't dare open the door.
That night, Ivy woke up screaming.
Emily tried to calm her, but Ivy sobbed so hard she couldn't breathe. She clung to Emily, shaking her head, repeating the same thing over and over:
"He was in my room."
Charlotte checked the room. The window was locked. The closet empty. But when she turned down the sheets, her stomach dropped.
A muddy footprint at the foot of the bed.
Still wet.
The fear swallowed them whole.
They stopped sleeping entirely. Even during the day, the house felt wrong — the air heavy, thick with something unseen but suffocating. Emily started jumping at her own reflection, her breath catching every time she passed a mirror. Charlotte muttered to herself constantly, pacing like a caged animal, eyes sunken and wild.
Ivy refused to be alone. She followed Emily from room to room, clinging to her like a lifeline, flinching at every creak of the floorboards. Her skin grew pale, almost translucent, and she barely spoke except to whisper one question:
"Why won't he leave?"
The whispers grew louder. Sometimes they sounded like Ivy's voice. Sometimes they sounded like Emily's.
One night, the TV turned on by itself — a blaring static screen that filled the living room with flickering white light. Emily unplugged it, but the static continued.
Charlotte smashed the TV with her bat.
The whispers didn't stop.
Then, they started seeing him.
At first, it was fleeting — a shadow at the end of the hallway, a silhouette standing by the fence line, unmoving, watching. But the glimpses became longer. More distinct.
A man with no face.
Ivy saw him outside her window at dawn, standing in the garden, his head tilted like he was listening.
Charlotte saw him in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, standing right behind her.
Emily woke up with bruises on her wrists, shaped like fingers.
And every morning, the basement door was wide open.
Swallowed by the silence of the basement,
The air was thick, damp, pressing against their skin like a living thing. The dim light from Emily's flashlight barely pierced the darkness, illuminating only the next few steps. Each creak of the wooden stairs echoed like a scream.
Emily's grip on Charlotte's hand was desperate, her fingers digging into her skin. Charlotte squeezed back, her pulse pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.
"Ivy?" Emily whispered, her voice fragile, cracking on the name.
No answer. Only the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere unseen.
They reached the bottom. The basement was larger than they remembered — cavernous, almost endless, the corners lost to shadow. The floor was cold concrete, slick with something that smelled like iron.
Charlotte shivered. "Stay close," she whispered, tugging Emily against her side.
They crept forward.
Emily's flashlight flickered.
And then they saw it.
In the center of the room, a chair. And in the chair, Ivy.
Her head was bowed, her hair hanging like a curtain over her face. She didn't move. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers curled unnaturally.
"Ivy!" Emily cried, rushing forward.
Charlotte caught her, yanking her back.
"No," Charlotte breathed, her heart seizing with dread.
The flashlight flickered again.
Ivy looked up.
Her eyes were gone.
Hollow, black pits stared back at them, wide and endless, her mouth stretched into a twisted, unnatural smile.
Behind her, something moved.
The faceless man.
His fingers rested gently on Ivy's shoulders, long and sharp, like knives. He tilted his head, like he was curious, watching Emily and Charlotte's reaction with an almost childlike fascination.
Emily collapsed, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. Charlotte knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around her, pulling her close like she could protect her from the horror in front of them.
"I'm sorry," Emily sobbed, burying her face in Charlotte's neck. "I'm so sorry."
Charlotte held her tighter, her own tears falling silently. "We'll fix this," she whispered, voice shaking. "I don't know how, but we'll fix this."
The faceless man raised a hand and slowly beckoned them forward.
The basement door didn't unlock.
Charlotte wiped her face, steeling herself. She helped Emily to her feet, their bodies pressed together like they could share bravery through touch.
"We can't leave her," Emily whispered, voice raw. "Ivy's still in there... somewhere."
Charlotte nodded, even as terror gnawed at her bones. "Okay. Together."
They stepped forward.
The faceless man didn't move, just watched. Ivy's body shuddered as they approached, her breath shallow and uneven.
"Ivy?" Emily reached out, fingers trembling, and touched her arm.
Ivy jerked violently, a guttural scream tearing from her throat. The faceless man slid back into the shadows, his form blending into the darkness like smoke. Ivy's body spasmed, her mouth stretching impossibly wide, her voice warping into something that wasn't human.
"Help me," she rasped, her head snapping toward Emily. "Please."
Emily fell to her knees, sobbing. "We're here, we're here, Ivy, just hold on!"
Charlotte grabbed Ivy's face, forcing her to look at her. "Fight it," she demanded, her voice sharp with desperation. "You're stronger than this!"
The room rippled. The walls groaned.
A deep, guttural voice poured from Ivy's mouth — but it wasn't hers. "She belongs to us," it growled, low and resonant, shaking the floor. "And soon... so will you."
Charlotte clenched her jaw, her heart pounding. She wasn't about to lose Ivy — or Emily.
"Take me instead," Charlotte whispered, her voice steady.
Emily gasped. "No!"
The shadows pulsed, and the faceless man reappeared, towering over them. He reached for Charlotte.
And she didn't flinch.
The faceless man's fingers wrapped around Charlotte's wrist like ice, seeping into her skin. The world tilted. The shadows surged, swallowing the basement in an inky blackness that drowned out even Emily's cries.
Charlotte gasped as cold burned through her veins, her body locking in place. The faceless man's featureless head tilted, as if studying her, and the void in Ivy's eyes flared like black fire.
Emily scrambled to her feet, screaming Charlotte's name, but the shadows coiled around her ankles, dragging her back. She clawed at the ground, her fingers scraping against the concrete.
"Let her go!" Emily sobbed, her voice breaking. "Take me instead!"
The entity laughed — a fractured, broken sound echoing through the room.
"She chose," it whispered, Ivy's mouth moving, her voice twisted and jagged. "And now... she's ours."
Charlotte's vision blurred. She could feel herself unraveling, her memories slipping like sand. But even as her body faded, her heart thudded with one final, searing thought.
Emily.
Charlotte tried to speak, to tell her to run, to live, but her voice was gone.
The shadows swallowed her whole.
Emily's scream split the darkness.
And then — silence.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Emily lay on the cold basement floor, chest heaving, her tear-streaked face pressed to the concrete. But then — a flicker.
A faint heartbeat, distant yet unmistakable.
Charlotte's heartbeat.
Emily's eyes snapped open. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the ache in her limbs. The faceless man stood motionless, his presence heavy like a weight pressing against her chest. Ivy's body hung limp, her head lolling to the side, but her lips moved, a fractured whisper escaping her throat.
"She's... not... gone."
Emily's pulse thundered. "Charlotte?"
The faceless man slowly turned toward her, shadows dripping from his form like tar. But Emily didn't retreat. She stepped forward, her jaw clenched.
"Take me to her," she demanded, her voice sharp as glass.
The entity's head tilted, considering her. Then, without a word, the shadows surged, spiraling around Emily, pulling her under.
The basement dissolved.
She hit the ground hard, coughing as black dust billowed around her. Emily blinked through the haze, her heart hammering.
She wasn't in the basement anymore.
She was in a vast, endless void — and somewhere in the distance, Charlotte's voice echoed, faint and broken.
"Em?"
Emily staggered to her feet and ran toward the sound, her fear swallowed by sheer determination.
She wasn't leaving without her.
Emily ran, her breath sharp and shallow, the endless void stretching in every direction. Charlotte's faint voice guided her, but the further she went, the more the landscape twisted.
A door appeared out of the shadows, wooden and splintered. Emily pushed it open, stepping into their old living room — but everything was wrong. The walls melted like wax, and the air smelled of smoke.
On the couch, Charlotte sat laughing, her head thrown back. Emily's heart leapt, but when she stepped closer, Charlotte's face shifted — her features blurred, her eyes black voids.
"Why did you leave me?" Charlotte's voice echoed, distant and hollow.
Emily staggered back, her chest aching. "I didn't leave you," she whispered, tears burning her eyes. "I'm trying to bring you home."
The room dissolved into shadow.
She stumbled through more warped memories — their first kiss under a thunderstorm, but Charlotte's lips turned to ash. A beach trip where Charlotte's silhouette faded like a dying ember. Each step forward stripped the moments of their warmth, leaving Emily choking on grief.
Finally, she heard Charlotte again, closer this time.
"Em?"
Emily rushed toward the voice, her heart pounding, but when she found Charlotte, her love's eyes were distant, her face slack.
"Charlotte, it's me," Emily whispered, touching her face. "Please, remember me."
Charlotte blinked, confusion clouding her gaze.
"Emily?" she asked, voice thin and uncertain. "I... I don't know you."
Emily shattered.
But she didn't let go.
Emily knelt in front of Charlotte, her hands trembling as she cupped her face. The void pulsed around them, shadows curling and shifting, but Emily blocked it out — all she saw was Charlotte.
"You do know me," Emily whispered, her voice fierce with love and desperation. "I'm the one who used to sneak into your room at night so we could talk until sunrise. I'm the one who made you that awful birthday cake with way too much frosting because I wanted to see you smile."
Charlotte's brow furrowed, her lips parting, but no words came.
Emily pressed on, tears streaking down her face. "Remember the storm? The one where we kissed for the first time? You said the thunder didn't scare you anymore as long as I was there."
Charlotte's fingers twitched in Emily's grip.
"And when I got sick, you stayed by my side for days, reading to me until I fell asleep. You sang that stupid song from the movie we loved, even though you hated your voice." Emily let out a shaky laugh. "But I loved your voice. I still do."
Charlotte's eyes welled up, her gaze sharpening. She blinked, and the fog in her expression began to lift.
"Emily," she whispered, voice cracking.
Emily choked on a sob, nodding. "I'm here. I found you."
Charlotte collapsed into Emily's arms, clutching her tightly as the shadows screeched and writhed, furious at losing their grip.
"I thought I lost you," Charlotte cried.
"Never," Emily vowed, holding her like she'd never let go again.
Emily held Charlotte tightly, their hearts beating in sync, but the shadows around them seethed with rage. The void twisted, tendrils of darkness lashing out, trying to reclaim what they'd lost.
Emily wiped the tears from Charlotte's face, determination burning in her chest. "We have to get out of here," she said, voice steady despite the chaos around them.
Charlotte nodded, her grip on Emily fierce. "Together."
The shadows lunged. Emily pushed Charlotte behind her, instinct taking over. Every memory she'd held onto, every ounce of love she'd refused to let go of — she channeled it, using the force of their bond like a weapon.
Light flared from Emily's hands, searing through the darkness. The shadows recoiled, hissing and shrieking, but they didn't relent. They surged again, forming grotesque shapes — twisted versions of the people they loved, the fears they harbored.
But Charlotte stepped forward, grabbing Emily's hand. "We fight them together."
The two of them moved as one, cutting through the darkness with sheer willpower. Every step forward shattered the illusion, the void cracking like glass beneath their feet. The shadows screamed, clinging to their ankles, their wrists, trying to drag them down.
Emily gritted her teeth, pulling Charlotte closer. "You're not taking her from me."
A final surge of light erupted from their intertwined hands, ripping through the void like a supernova. The shadows disintegrated, their cries fading into silence.
The void shattered.
They collapsed onto solid ground, gasping for breath. The sky above them was clear, stars twinkling as if nothing had happened. Charlotte turned to Emily, her eyes filled with gratitude and love.
"We made it," she whispered.
Emily laughed, tears streaming down her face. "Of course we did."
They clung to each other, the remnants of the void dissolving into the night. The fight was over — and they had won.
Emily and Charlotte lay side by side beneath the starry sky, their chests rising and falling in tandem as they caught their breath. The air smelled like rain, fresh and cleansing, washing away the residue of the darkness they had fought through.
Charlotte turned her head to Emily, her fingers brushing against her cheek. "Is it really over?" she whispered, voice laced with exhaustion and hope.
Emily nodded, her eyes soft but resolute. "I think so." She glanced around — the shadows were gone, the world around them eerily quiet but undeniably real. "We're safe now."
Charlotte exhaled shakily and pressed her forehead to Emily's. "I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't found me."
Emily's throat tightened. She cupped Charlotte's face, brushing her thumb over her skin like she still couldn't believe she was real. "I'd find you in any world," she promised. "Nothing could keep me from you."
They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, until the chill of the night reminded them of their bodies. Emily sat up, scanning the landscape — they were in the woods behind the old house, the basement door barely visible in the distance. It looked smaller, less threatening, as if the evil inside had been stripped away.
"We should get home," Emily said, helping Charlotte to her feet. Their fingers intertwined automatically, and they walked through the forest, leaning on each other for support.
But as they stepped onto the dirt path leading back to their neighborhood, Charlotte hesitated.
"What if it's not over?" she asked, her voice small.
Emily squeezed her hand. "Then we face it together."
They returned to the house, weary but alive, and collapsed onto Emily's bed. The weight of everything they'd endured clung to them, but so did the relief of survival. And as they drifted into sleep, Charlotte whispered three words that made Emily's heart ache in the best way.
"I remember everything."
Emily smiled, kissing Charlotte's temple as they both finally let themselves rest.
But far beneath the house, in the depths of the ruined basement, something stirred — a faint, echoing hum, like the last remnants of a storm not ready to fade.