The rose bushes had grown wild over the decade, their thorny branches interlacing to form a dense barrier.

Eleanor used her thick wool sleeve to shield her face as she pushed through a gap in the hedge.

I followed, my uniform jacket catching on a sharp thorn.

I pulled it free, hearing the fabric snap in the quiet air.

We hurried across the damp lawn toward the greenhouse.

The glass structure loomed ahead, several of its panes broken, jagged shards reflecting the gray sky.

We reached the glass door.

The lock was indeed broken, just as Eleanor had remembered.

She pushed the door open, and the smell of decayed vegetation and wet earth hit us.

We walked down the center aisle, our boots crunching on spilled gravel and broken pottery.

At the far end was the wooden service door leading into the main house.

Eleanor took out the brass key ring.

Her fingers were cold, and the keys clinked together with a high, metallic ring.

“Quiet,” I breathed.

She selected a small, tarnished key and inserted it into the keyhole.