Jane jerked up from her bed and stared. Light flickered under the door-frame of her room. Footsteps, a cough, and the door opened, casting a shadow. Her father peered into the dark room, the lingering smell of burnt leaves clinging to him. 

“You’re awake again.” He stared past Jane, hesitating. “Sleep. I’ll be down the hall.” 

The door closed, the hard light faded, and the shadows settled. Jane remained fixated and slowly lowered back down into the linen sheets of her bed. She shut her eyes, shapeless greens and yellows beneath her eyelids. 

Thump.

She heard the careful creak of a door.

Thump—fire-wood split.

Louder this time. She felt a presence heating the room. A flinch rushed over her body, and hidden weeps pressed against her lungs. The heat felt closer, burning through her skin.

She tore open her eyes. Empty shadows on the ceiling. Her door was closed, there was nothing, and nothing had changed. 

She lay down, staring at the ceiling. Sweat formed at her brow. She shut her eyes. Colors surged restlessly behind them. 

Thump—visions of her mother collapsed in ashes.

Louder still—clearer than her muffled heartbeat. Once more she felt it, a presence standing over her. Her eyes opened but she could not see; and all in an instant, known figures emerged from a storm of color, a hoarse cough rang through her ears, and the pungent smell of burnt leaves drenched her mind.

She stood, her warm bare feet on the cold hardwood. Jane looked down the dark hallway. Cautious floorboards squeaked as Jane’s feet carried her into the hall. 

Her father’s door rested at the end, harsh light breaking the shadows. She stared at the door, and the door stared back. A waiting silence, but for the sharp breaths of her father behind his door. 

She moved out of the hall, a long window battered by rain. Jane focused out on the forest of stumps, a woodcutter’s axe stuck deep in the nearest.

Sharp breaths paused, and Jane heard the careful creak of a door.