Eva didn't sleep after the voice at the door.
She sat in bed until the gray dawn smeared across the horizon like a bruise, heart pacing against her ribs, the echo of the child's words scraping the back of her mind.
"Can you help me? I can't find my eyes."
She told herself it had been a nightmare. Lack of sleep. Stress. But when she stepped outside, the fog from the night hadn't gone—it had thickened, curling like breath around her legs as she walked. Like it was following her.
Miss Hallow stood by the fence, clutching something to her chest.
"I heard them," Eva said.
Miss Hallow didn't look up. "We all do.That doesn't mean they're speaking to you."
Eva stepped closer. "There was a child. At my door."
Miss Hallow's voice lowered. "Then it's begun."
The chapel sat in the far end of the village like an apology—small, quiet, almost ashamed to still exist. Ivy covered most of the stone, but the windows were bricked in from the inside, and there was no bell.
Inside, pews had been overturned and stacked near the altar. Candle wax congealed along the floor in circles. A book—part prayer, part record—lay open near the pulpit.
Each name listed had a time next to it.
All of them: 3:33 a.m.
She turned the page.
The next entry had no name.