The gap widened, revealing a narrow entryway cluttered with discarded shoes and a knocked-over coat rack.

Liam reached inside, his hand finding the light switch.

He flipped it, but nothing happened.

“Power is off,” he whispered.

He pulled a small metal flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on.

The narrow beam of light cut through the gloom, dancing over a dusty console table and a shattered ceramic vase.

The scraping sound came again, louder this time.

It was rhythmic, a dull metal-on-metal slide.

Liam stepped into the apartment, keeping his body low.

I followed him close behind, my eyes adjusting to the shadows.

We moved into the small living room.

The beam of his flashlight swept across a faded fabric sofa and a coffee table covered in old mugs.

The sound was coming from the kitchen window.

Liam shone the light on the glass.

The window was cracked open, and a loose metal screen was banging against the exterior brick wall in the wind.

I let out a long, shaky breath.

“Just the wind,” I said, rubbing my damp palms against my jeans.