Outside, the first star pierced the bruised twilight. The wind resumed its soft argument with the eaves. Clara made herself a cup of tea, using the now-free-flowing tap.

“Alright,” she whispered to the house, her voice the only other sound for miles. “Let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”

In the quiet of the farmhouse kitchen, the only thing left was the soft, rhythmic drip of the faucet, counting out seconds like a small, grateful heart.

The slow gurgle had been there for weeks. Not a shout, but a death rattle. Every time Clara ran the tap in the farmhouse kitchen, the sink would sigh, a wet, congested breath that smelled of old earth and forgotten meals. Tonight, the water sat in a murky pool, a dark mirror reflecting the single bulb overhead.