Hannah knew the house. She knew its bones, and she knew its skin. She knew the pressure of breathing against its ribs, and she knew what it felt like to be beneath those ribs, enclosed there and peering out. She knew the creaks and the sounds it made when it was quiet, and she knew the way it whispered in the night. Tonight, she approached it on hush steps and listening.
From outside, she listened to the music and the carry of voices on the moonlight breeze. She arrived late, dressed comfortably, and her rainboots grass stained from the walk. But it had been a nice walk, and she looked up at the house from the yard for a long, long while, just looking, just listening, just being. And she would go inside in a moment. Or maybe she would go around the back. Or maybe she would just find a spot, here somewhere and unseen, and watch. Watch people come in and out, out and in. For now, she stood.