Testing Obedience

The silence of the old house pressed in on them, a heavy blanket woven with the lingering scent of lavender and woodsmoke. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows across the overgrown garden, making the familiar shapes of rose bushes and ancient oak trees seem alien and watchful. Inside, the triplets huddled together in the living room, the worn velvet of the sofa doing little to comfort their rising unease. The single, resonant *thump* that had echoed through the house mere minutes ago still vibrated in the air, a phantom limb of sound.

Connor, his fists clenched at his sides, paced the worn Persian rug like a caged animal. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, were narrowed with a mixture of frustration and a dangerous spark of defiance. "It was just one knock," he grumbled, the words tight in his throat. "One. Grandma said if we hear *one* knock, don't open it. She didn't say if we hear *a* knock."

Amy, perched on the edge of an armchair, her brow furrowed in thought, shook her head. "That's not what she meant, Connor. You know it isn't. 'If you ever hear one knock…'" She quoted their grandmother's words, her voice soft but firm, "‘don't open it.’ It was a complete sentence. A rule."