Foxglove Cottage
The cottage sits at the end of the lane behind a low stone wall, wearing its ivy like a cardigan. The garden is overgrown in the specific way of gardens whose owners meant to get to it on the weekend. A ceramic bowl by the door reads HIS LORDSHIP and holds only rainwater.
The key is under the mat, because Aunt Edith was of a generation that believed burglars were fundamentally too lazy to bend down.
Inside, the air smells of woodsmoke, old paper, and orange peel. The kettle on the stove is cold, but only just โ which is odd, for a house that has stood empty for three weeks.