Mira backs against the wall and presses herself into the deep shadow beside a toppled grain sack, holding her breath. The amber bar under the door hasn't moved since the shadow paused. Seconds stretch. Then the movement resumes: a slow step, the groan of a floorboard, another step. Whoever is up there isn't retreating — they're crossing the room. The light dims and brightens as they pass the source a second time, unhurried, methodical. Then silence. The waterwheel turns its slow syllable outside. Into that quiet comes a new sound from above: the soft, repeated scratch of something on paper — like writing, or drawing. Whoever it is has gone back to work, apparently satisfied there is nothing to worry about downstairs. Mira's heart is still loud in her ears, but her feet have stopped shaking. The staircase is right in front of her, and the paper in her pocket is still warm.