The whisper was gone.

Mira sat back, heartbeat pounding like war drums in her ears. She stared at the nailed-shut window as the last of the daylight drained from the room. Her mind clung to logic—maybe it was the wind, or the old woman muttering outside. Echoes. Nothing more.

Still, she didn’t move from the bed.

The candle on her desk flickered, its flame twitching unnaturally, almost as if reacting to breath.

Don’t look out the window.

The voice had been calm, almost sad. Male, maybe. But not quite human. She hadn’t imagined it. She was sure.

She rose slowly and approached the window. A few rusted nails jutted from the corners of the wooden frame. Someone had sealed it tight. Not to keep something out. To keep something in.

Mira’s fingers hovered near the wood. She was about to touch it when—

Knock.

She jumped, heart leaping to her throat.

Knock knock.

Not the door. The window.

She stumbled back, knocking over the chair. The candle flared and almost died. Mira froze, eyes locked on the windowpane, afraid even to breathe.

Three slow knocks.
Then silence.

She forced herself forward again, feet numb on the cold wooden floor. There was no curtain. Only the wooden board. No way to see who—or what—was outside.

“Mira,” a voice whispered. Clear. Right outside the glass.

She gasped.

It was her mother’s voice.

But her mother had died five years ago. Cancer. Mira had been there for the final breath, the funeral, the ashes scattered into the sea.

Yet here it was again—gentle, loving, broken.

“Mira… let me in, sweetheart. I’m cold.”

The voice shook her resolve. For a heartbeat, she believed. She wanted to believe.

Then—scratching.

Fingers—no, nails—trailing down the outside of the window. She saw one rusty nail shift slightly.

She backed away quickly, heart thundering. “You’re not my mother.”

Silence.

Then a sigh from the other side.

The candle died.

The room plunged into total darkness.

She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. She just stood there, frozen, until the lock on the door clicked softly. It opened slowly, letting in dim yellow light from the hallway.

The old woman stood there, holding a lantern. Her eyes were shadowed. Her voice low.

“You heard it, didn’t you?”

Mira nodded.

The old woman sighed. “They remember voices. Not faces. They’ll keep trying. They want to be let in. But once you invite them... they never leave.”

“Who are they?” Mira whispered.

The old woman’s face tightened. “The Unburied. Duskvale doesn’t bury the lost anymore. Not since the ground stopped accepting them.”

She placed a heavy iron key on the table. “This locks the window from inside. Sleep now. You’ll need your strength.”

Mira watched her go.

Alone again, she lay on the bed, clutching the key like a weapon.

Outside, the wind howled.
And somewhere in it, something laughed.