The Hollow Estate was always quiet in the mornings, but that day, the silence carried something else — a weight Lyra couldn't name. Mist clung to the gardens, soft and heavy, wrapping around the statues like silk. The air smelled faintly of wet soil and something colder.
She stood by the window, her fingers tracing the cracked wood of the frame. The world outside looked blurred, like it was still half asleep. She should've gone downstairs for breakfast, but her eyes kept drifting toward the fog-covered garden — the one she hadn't dared to explore since she moved in.
Her aunt's voice echoed in her head. Stay away from the back garden, Lyra. It's unsafe after rain.
Unsafe. Such a vague word.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was defiance. But a part of her — the part that never liked being told "no" — pushed her to grab her cardigan and step outside.
The grass soaked her shoes instantly, the chill biting through her socks. The fog moved in slow curls, hiding and revealing the world in fragments. Statues of angels and lost faces watched her pass, their marble eyes clouded with moss.
Halfway through the path, she heard it — a voice.
It wasn't clear at first. More like a whisper carried by the wind.
She froze. The air felt heavier, pressing against her chest.
"Who's there?" she called softly.
Silence. Then — footsteps.
Her heart stumbled. She turned sharply, scanning the mist. A shape moved — tall, faint, human. Her breath hitched.
"Hello?" she tried again.
The shape didn't answer right away. It just… stood there. Watching.
Then, a boy stepped out of the fog. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and his clothes looked a little too thin for the cold. He couldn't have been much older than her, though there was something — distant — in his eyes.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
Lyra blinked. "You— you scared me."
He tilted his head slightly. "I didn't mean to." His voice was calm, almost soft enough to sound sad. "You're new here."
"I live here," she said, more defensively than she meant to. "Who are you?"
The boy hesitated. "Just someone who walks the garden sometimes."
"That's not an answer."
He almost smiled. "Maybe it's the only one you'll get for now."
Something about him didn't fit — not his clothes, not the way he spoke, not even how the fog seemed to cling to him more than it did to everything else. Still, she didn't feel scared. Just… unsettled.
Lyra crossed her arms. "So you sneak into estates for fun?"
He looked past her shoulder, toward the manor. "You've been hearing things, haven't you?"
Her heart skipped. "What do you mean?"
"The walls whisper here. The halls remember."
The words crawled up her spine like ice. "How do you know that?"
He met her eyes then, and for a brief second, she swore she saw something flicker behind them — pain, maybe. Or recognition.
"I just do," he said.
The fog thickened between them, and when she blinked, he was gone.
No footsteps. No sound. Just silence, pressing in all around.
Lyra's throat tightened. She turned in slow circles, scanning the garden, but there was nothing. Only the fog, shifting like smoke.
When she finally made it back inside, her aunt was in the hallway, holding a cup of tea and looking startled.
"You're soaked," she said sharply. "Were you outside?"
Lyra nodded. "In the garden."
Her aunt's face drained of color. "The back garden?"
"Yes. I thought—"
"Lyra," her aunt said, cutting her off, voice trembling slightly, "if you ever see anyone out there, you come straight to me. Don't talk to them. Don't—" She stopped herself, setting the teacup down too hard. "Just promise me."
Lyra hesitated. "Okay… but why?"
Her aunt turned away. "Because not everyone who walks that garden is still living."
Lyra froze.
Her aunt's footsteps faded up the stairs, leaving her alone in the quiet hall.
For a long time, Lyra stood there, her shoes dripping onto the old rug, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Somewhere behind her, the walls creaked — like the house itself was listening.