The window was open.
Barely, just an inch — but enough to let in a draft strong enough to move the pages.
Suddenly everything clicked.
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The footsteps.
The scraping sound.
The flickering lamp.
The old house always amplified small noises.
A shifting book.
A loose window frame.
A breeze rolling across the wooden floor.
Anna crouched and touched the book.
The pages fluttered again as a soft gust entered the room.
She let out a shaky laugh — partly relief, partly disbelief.
But one question still lingered:
If the wind caused all this…
Why did it sound exactly like footsteps?
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