The mattress finally caught up and pressed against Longman’s back, taking the brunt of his weight. He released his grip on the metal rail and silence returned to the room.

Longman listened carefully.

The sound had been unmistakable. Shattering glass makes a distinctive noise that even his diminished hearing could pick up. But identifying its source was much harder. Was it the sound of a dropped ashtray? A wine glass? Or of a broken window, smashed to admit the uninvited? Not that one possibility was better or worse than any other. In the otherwise empty house of an eighty-five-year-old widower, every one of them was a concern.

Longman strained to listen. At first there was nothing. At least nothing he could hear.

The house was big. Much too big now that his wife had passed away and his children had moved on. But Longman had been unable to bring himself to move. To leave the family home of fifty years. He knew it inside out.

And it was that familiarity that made the next sound an unintentional alarm. The creak of the first step on the main staircase.

It was a feature of the house that went back decades. In the daytime – during the housekeeper’s working hours – it would be the most natural sound in the world. But when the bedside clock read 3 a.m.? At that hour it was terrifying.

The sound of footsteps followed the first creak, but it was drowned out as Longman threw back the duvet and freed his frail legs from its weight. Crippling arthritis forced him to shift his entire body in one movement as he swung his legs from the bed and towards the floor. The pain was excruciating; he had not moved so fast in five years, back when his hips did their job. But he ignored the agony and climbed to his feet, one hand on the solid bedpost for support.

His breathing was out of control, his heart a piston. But Longman pushed himself on, staggering to the walk-in closet in the far corner of the room. For the first time in years he made the distance without a stick or a frame for support. Exhausted, he stumbled as he reached the door. Only his adrenaline kept him upright.

Regaining his balance, Longman gripped the closet door’s handle and then paused, holding his breath in an effort to hear. Nothing could stop the thumping pulse that filled his inner ear, nor the fear that his overworking heart would not keep the pace. Still, it was quiet enough to hear the footsteps.

The closet opened easily. Longman transferred his weight from the handle to the frame, in order to let the door pass. Once open he moved inside. Fumbling in the dark, he found the light-switch and pressed it just as the sound of footsteps stopped outside the bedroom.

The light was at first blinding, but Longman’s eyes adjusted quickly. The sight that greeted them, however, was not worth the effort. The hope that had been carrying him disappeared in a single breath.