I didn't notice it when I was rushing upstairs, my mind buzzing with the urgency of whatever had drawn me upward.
My feet pounded the steps, one after the other, in a rhythmic, almost mindless cadence.
But now, slowing down, taking my time, breathing deliberately, the smell hit me.
Burned wood.
Not the faint, cozy hint of a fireplace or the subtle char that comes from cooking something over a stovetop, but a sharp, acrid scent that made my nose twitch and my throat tighten.
It wasn't just smoke, it was something sharper, more deliberate, a chemical tang that set my senses on high alert.
I paused on the landing, holding myself still, sniffing the air carefully as I tried to pinpoint the source.
My instincts screamed that whatever was happening wasn't ordinary.
I followed the scent, tentative yet determined, stepping lightly down the hall.
Each step felt measured, almost ceremonial, as if the house itself held its breath alongside me.
