James kept Liam close as the landscapers stepped back, suddenly uneasy about what they’d unearthed. The opening was narrow, lined with old metal and cables, the hum steady and unnatural, like a machine that had been waiting. No one spoke. The air felt heavier, charged with the quiet knowledge that this discovery belonged to someone—or something—that hadn’t planned on being found.

He thought of the rusted object in the tree roots, the nights Liam complained about faint vibrations in the walls, the subtle misalignments in the floorboards he’d always ignored. None of it seemed harmless now. James ordered the entrance sealed, but he knew it was only a gesture. Once you’ve learned your home sits on a secret, you never really live there the same way again. Some doors stay closed. Others you close yourself, and spend the rest of your life wondering what they were holding back.