She had too many questions, and she kept coming up empty as she tried to craft answers for them all. Margot pushed away from the fence and moved toward the house. She undid the hair clip. More of her curls had sprung free and were turning to frizz in the wind, and she used a band from her pocket to tie them up.

The coils of rope Kant had left near the front door were gone. In their place was a small wicker basket. Margot approached it cautiously, craning her neck to see the contents without letting herself get too close. She recognized the distinct blue of a bottle of milk and moved forward, pulling the cloth back. A note had been tied to the basket’s handle, written in a gently sloping script.

A few necessities to make your first day easier. Welcome to Gallows Hill!

—-Nora and Ray

Margot smiled despite herself as she tucked the store managers’ note into her pocket. The basket held milk, a loaf of bread, butter that was turning soft, a jar of jam, apples, and a dozen loose eggs. Grateful beyond words, Margot held the basket close to her chest as she pushed her door open and entered the home.

Despite the sun beating on the house’s exterior, its insides still felt uncomfortably dim. Margot nudged the door closed behind herself and had to squint as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Ahead, she could barely make out a set of stairs at the end of the hall.

The kitchen, with its curtained window, was the only well-lit part of the house. Margot moved into it and spent a moment searching the cupboards for a pot, which she filled with water and put on the stove.

She hadn’t eaten since the previous night and chewed on a slice of bread to take the edge off her hunger while three eggs boiled. The egg yolks were still runny when she pulled them off the stove, and Margot used another slice of bread to mop them up while she stood at the sink and stared through the window.

In the distance, the fence snaked along the boundary line, slipping in and out of sight as it disappeared behind patchy tree growths. Margot knew there were birds in those trees—she’d seen them the day before—but they were being uncomfortably quiet that afternoon.

At her back, the house felt cold and empty. She had the impression of a historical building, the kind that was too significant to bulldoze but was not wanted or needed for anything more intimate than occasional tours. The furniture was all still there, the plates in the cupboards and the original curtains drawn across the windows, but they’d become fossilized in their neglect; once a daily part of life, now they only existed to be stared at with uncaring eyes.

I need to get out. Breathe a bit.