October 20, Sunday

THE DAY stretched before me, long and empty. I stood at the kitchen window, coffee mug in hand, watching the sun slowly creep over the horizon. The Whisper Graveyard had been quiet all day, with no visitors and no sign of Sawyer's truck rumbling up the road.

I sighed, annoyed at the pang of disappointment in my chest. This was good, I reminded myself. Space and time to focus on my writing. No distractions, no complications. Just me and my manuscript.

And yet...

I found myself reaching for my phone, scrolling through my contacts. Frida's name was grayed out – she was off on some yoga retreat, probably twisting herself into a pretzel while sipping overpriced green juice. Kelly's number beckoned, but I hesitated. She had enough on her plate with her uncle and the recent loss of Wayne.

My thumb hovered over my mother's name for a long moment. The thought of her sharp wit and sharper criticism was almost tempting in the face of this oppressive solitude. Almost.

With a groan, I tossed the phone aside and stomped upstairs to my makeshift office. Time to be a professional. Time to write.

Hours ticked by in a haze of deleted sentences and frustrated sighs. Lady Amelia and Lord Stonecraft's romance felt flat, their witty banter forced. I couldn't help but draw parallels to my own stunted relationship with Sawyer.

"Focus, Josephine," I muttered, pushing thoughts of strong hands and green eyes from my mind.

By late afternoon, I had managed to eke out a few thousand words. They weren't my best, but they were something. Progress, however painful, was still progress.

As dusk began to settle over the Whisper House, I stretched, my back popping in protest after hours hunched over my laptop. Time for my nightly ritual of locking up the graveyard gate.

The air was cool against my skin as I made my way down the winding path. Shadows lengthened, turning familiar headstones into looming sentinels.

Just as I reached for the gate's padlock, a movement caught my eye. I froze, heart thundering in my chest. There, among the weathered stones, I could have sworn I saw a figure ducking out of sight.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice embarrassingly shaky. "Is someone there?"

Silence answered me, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze.

I squinted into the gathering gloom, trying to make out shapes in the darkness. Nothing moved.

"Get a grip, Josephine," I chided myself. "You're letting your imagination run wild again."

I shook my head, berating myself for getting spooked by shadows and wind—a byproduct of spending all day alone with my thoughts. Quickly, I secured the padlock and turned to head back to the house.

That's when I heard it. A laugh. Soft and melodic, carried on the wind. A woman's laugh.

I whirled around, my heart in my throat. "Who's there?" I demanded, trying to inject some authority into my voice.

But the graveyard remained still and silent, offering no explanation for the phantom sound.

I stood there for a long moment, straining my ears for any further noise. But there was nothing.

With a shaky exhale, I forced my feet to move, practically running back to the Whisper House. I slammed the door behind me, leaning against it as I tried to calm my racing pulse.

It was nothing, I told myself. Just the wind playing tricks. Or birds. Or maybe my own loneliness manifesting as auditory hallucinations.