The crow lifts from the windowsill in a single, silent beat of wings and lands inside the hallway — between Mira and the open door — its silver-banded leg pale against the dark floorboards. It does not descend. Instead it hops sideways, once, twice, drawing her gaze away from the pulsing light below the stairs. Mira steps back from the threshold, the receipt still warm against her palm, and follows. The crow moves ahead with unhurried certainty, past the row of framed pictures she has walked by a thousand times. But tonight one frame hangs slightly crooked, and behind it, where there should be only plaster, a thin line of faint light traces the outline of something — a panel, a seam, perhaps another door entirely. The crow stops directly beneath it and tilts its head up at her, pale eyes unblinking, waiting.