I wake to the silence of Blackwood Manor, the air thick with dust and memory. It’s 1945, and the war is over, but Charles never came home—I was told he died in combat. Now, I live here with Anne and Nicholas, both cursed with an illness that makes light unbearable. The curtains stay closed. The doors stay locked. Order is everything.

Then came Mrs. Mills, Tuttle, and Lydia—three strangers who claim they once served this house. They speak little, move quietly, and seem to know the layout too well. At first, I’m grateful. But then I hear footsteps where no one walks. I see a woman in Anne’s dress—old, blind, speaking with my daughter’s voice.

Last night, I found the photo album. Pictures of the dead. And today, Charles appeared at the gate—pale, distant, gone again before I could touch him.

Now, the children whisper of graves in the woods. I don’t know what’s real anymore. But I know this: something is in this house with us.

Do I confront Mrs. Mills about the graves? Search Charles’s study for answers? Or take the children and flee before the light finds us?