Heat from the afternoon sun bleaches the yard as you study the doorframe. The boards are warped, and a narrow gap reveals a sliver of shadow behind the door. You press your palm against the rough wood, listening for any hidden latch or weakness. A faint draft sneaks through the crack, carrying dust and a whisper of something not quite right. The house seems to exhale, waiting for a move you have yet to make.

Your fingers drift along the gaps, chasing every hint of a latch. A loose board by the porch catches your eye and you bend to examine it more closely. The wall hides a memory of footsteps, and you suspect a hidden route might exist if you pry in the right place. Your heart drums in your ears as the wind carries a stale scent of old rain and something metallic. You know you must decide your next move before the door's quiet patience shatters.