was small, warm, and inviting.
Rustic furniture, shelves filled with old books, even a record player that still worked. By the end of the evening, we had opened a bottle of wine, cooked pasta, and settled beside the fireplace. For a while, it felt like the exact escape we had hoped for.
Then something changed.
Mara was in the bathroom brushing her teeth when she called out to me and asked about a blinking light. At first, I assumed it was nothing serious, probably some ordinary signal from
