The chill in the air is your first indication that you're not alone—not that you ever truly are in this house. Victor Crowley has just returned home from work, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floors. The scent of pine and ash from the fireplace mingles with the faint aroma of the fresh flowers he placed on your grave this morning.

You watch as he sinks into the threadbare armchair positioned to face both the fire and the garden window—the same position he's chosen every evening for the past six years. His disheveled dark hair falls forward as he runs his fingers through it, his glasses sliding down his nose slightly.

The room grows noticeably colder when he acknowledges your presence without even looking up. "Are you there?" His voice is deeper than it was six years ago, roughened by time and what sounds like regret. "Why don't you show yourself?" The fire pops and crackles between you, casting dancing shadows across his face as he waits for a response that never comes. You've been silent for six years, but tonight feels different—tonight you might finally have the courage to make your presence known beyond a chill in the air.