They called it “settling dust” and laughed it off over takeout pizza. That night Sarah woke to scratching—slow, deliberate, like fingernails counting studs behind the drywall. She followed the sound to the nursery they hadn’t even furnished yet. The door was ajar. Inside, the streetlight painted bars across the floor. The scratching stopped the moment she stepped in. Then started again—directly beneath her bare feet. Something was tracing her exact footsteps from inside the floorboards. She ran. Mike found her in the kitchen at 4 a.m. drinking straight from the wine bottle. “It’s just mice,” he said, but his voice cracked. When he hugged her, Sarah felt his heart hammering so hard she thought it might bruise her cheek. Mice don’t match your steps in perfect sync.
