Mara didn't call out. That instinct of shouting someone's name, checking if anyone was home, didn't come to her. She stayed at the foot of the stairs, hand braced lightly on the banister, head tilted just enough to listen. The sound was gone. If it had been breathing, it was no longer there. But the silence felt thinner than before, like someone had just slipped out of sight.
She climbed the stairs one step at a time, placing her feet at the edge of each board to avoid the creaks she knew by heart. Her room door was slightly ajar. She hadn't left it like that. The space between the door and the frame felt like a pulled string, tight and expectant.
When she entered, everything looked untouched. The charm and the stone were where she had left them. The desk chair hadn't moved. The window was still shut, the latch still down. Even the basin water remained still.
But the air was wrong.
It was thick in her throat, heavier than it should be. She stood there for a moment, then crossed the room to close the notebook she had left open. Her hand hovered just before touching it. Something had been written on the open page.
She leaned closer.
Three lines. A curve. The same symbol again, drawn neatly in the middle of the paper. Not scratched or rushed. It was placed there with intent. She hadn't drawn it.
Her heartbeat quickened, but her hands remained steady as she closed the notebook and placed it back in the drawer. She didn't want to look at it anymore. Not right now.
She moved to the window and opened it again. The sky was still a pale, confused color. Not dark enough for night. Not bright enough for morning. The village below remained silent, like someone had pressed pause on the world.
When she looked toward the woods, she saw the crow again. Or maybe a different one. It stood on the fence post near the path, unmoving. Watching.
She closed the window this time and locked the latch with a click.
Downstairs, she found the kitchen untouched. No sign of her aunt. The hearth was cold. The kettle hadn't been moved. The breadboard was clean. There was no note, no sign that anyone had even come through that morning.
She checked the back door. Still bolted.
Mara poured herself a glass of water and sat at the table. The house made no sound. No ticking clock. No rustle of fabric. No wind through the shutters. It felt like the entire house was holding something in.
The scarf she had found earlier sat folded on the counter. She hadn't remembered bringing it inside, but there it was, damp at the edges. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It wasn't just similar to her aunt's scarf. It was hers. The embroidery along the corner, small initials stitched in faint gray thread, was identical.
Mara stood and opened the hallway cupboard. Her aunt's coat was missing.
She walked back to the table and set the scarf down. The first thought that came wasn't worry. It was something quieter. Like a confirmation of something she had already been bracing for.
The last time she had seen her aunt was yesterday, in the late afternoon. She had been leaving in a hurry. No explanation. Just one glance back at Mara from the front step before the door shut behind her.
Now, with the house cold and hollow, Mara realized what had been bothering her the most.
The house hadn't felt empty last night.
It had only stopped breathing this morning.
She went back to her room, picked up the stone and the charm, and placed them in the satchel hanging on her bedpost. Then she pulled on her boots, tightened the laces, and tied her cloak at the throat.
Whatever was waiting in the woods or the village or wherever her aunt had disappeared to, it wasn't going to stay hidden for long.
And Mara was done standing still.
She left the house without looking back.