The letter was written in red ink, sealed with wax and delivered by a man with no eyes. Emery stood on the edge of the cliff, the old house looming behind her like a warning. The wind carried salt and secrets, brushing her Cheeks with fingers colder than the autumn air. She hadn't painted in months but her hands itched as if her soul knew something she didn't.
In the attic, a man watched her through a silver in the wall. He had been watching for a long, long time.