Chapter 4 - The Hand on the Glass
The grey smudge on the windowpane slowly expanded as the fingers curled into a loose fist, tapping twice against the reinforced double glass. The sound was dull, heavy, and undeniably real.
Clara let out a sharp gasp, stumbling backward until the back of her legs hit the edge of the sofa. "How... how is she up there? We're on the third floor!"
Elena didn't waste a single second screaming or asking impossible questions. She moved with the cold, practiced efficiency of someone who had rehearsed this exact nightmare in her sleep. Grabbing a heavy wool blanket from the back of the sofa, she hurled it across the room, completely covering the window and plunging the sitting area into a dim, claustrophobic twilight.
"Don't look at it," Elena commanded, her voice rigid. "Don't speak, don't move, and whatever you do, do not open that curtain."
"She's a little girl, Mom!" Clara whispered fiercely, her voice trembling despite her attempt at bravery. "She's freezing, and she's alone, and now she's hanging off a third-story brick wall? This isn't normal! None of this is normal!"
"Normal died twelve years ago," Elena muttered, her hands flying across the locks of the window frame, checking every latch to ensure they were sealed tight.
Outside the heavy wool blanket, a soft, melodic hum began to vibrate through the glass. It wasn't a song in any known language; it sounded like a lullaby hummed through clenched teeth, carrying a strange, rhythmic cadence that made Clara's temples throb with sudden, blinding pain.
Clara pressed her hands to her ears, grimacing. "Make it stop! What is she doing to my head?"
"She's testing the frequency," Elena said, her eyes wide as she pulled the heavy silver key from beneath her blouse and held it out like a talisman toward the covered window. As the key caught the dim light of the hallway lamp, the humming outside abruptly cut off, replaced by the sound of scuffling fabric and a soft, heavy thud against the pavement far below.
Silence reclaimed the street.
Elena stood frozen for a long moment, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Slowly, she lowered the key, letting it drop back against her beige blouse with a soft click.
"Is she gone?" Clara asked, lowering her hands from her ears, her breathing ragged.
"She's gone for now," Elena said, turning around with a face carved from stone. "But she left us a message. Just like she said at the door."
Elena walked back to the console table, picked up the burnt municipal map, and carefully lifted it. Underneath the parchment lay a single object that hadn't been there a minute ago: a dry, crusty heel of bread, snapped cleanly in half, with a tiny drop of dark red ink smeared across its rough surface.
Clara stared at the bread heel, her stomach turning. "Where did that come from? The window was locked!"
"It came from the bag you handed her," Elena replied grimly. "She didn't eat the bread, Clara. She dismantled it. She's looking for the core."
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Before Clara could ask what a loaf of bread could possibly have for a core, a sharp chime rang out from the kitchen. It was the mechanical timer on the oven—a timer that neither of them had set.
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