The rain continues its heavy, rhythmic thrumming against the wooden porch roof, sending sheets of grey water into the mud just inches from their boots.
Leonard steps forward, his palms closing over Grace's hands.
He holds them tight, pressing them between his own until the tremor in her fingers stops.
"Take the princess upstairs," Leonard says, his voice a low, steady rumble that carries no further than the edge of the porch. "Henry and I will handle this."
Grace swallows, her throat tightening. She nods once, pulls her hands away, and turns to step through the front door into the dry chill of the house.
Inside, Elsbeth sits alone on the edge of the bed, clutching her book. Grace takes her by the arm, guiding her toward the narrow stairwell, and the latch of the upper door clicks shut.
Leonard turns, stepping off the covered porch and back into the grey downpour. The red mire of the street reaches past his ankles, pulling at his leather boots with every step.
He cups a hand around his mouth, looking toward the dark, gaping doorways of the vacant houses.
"Henry!"
The shout is flat, swallowed almost instantly by the sheets of falling water. For a long moment, there is only the roar of the storm.
Then, a silhouette breaks through the mist a few houses down. Henry jogs toward him, his bare chest caked in a grey mix of ash and wet grit, his head bowed against the wind.
He stops in front of Leonard, chest heaving, wiping rain from his eyes with the side of his wrist.
"I'm here," Henry says, his breath rising in faint plumes. "Is everything alright, sir?"
Henry blinks past the water. "Lady Grace told me to check the other cellars for—"
"It's fine," Leonard cuts in, his gaze fixed on the younger man's face. "Did you find anything?"
Henry shakes his head, his shoulders dropping under the weight of the rain. "The cellars are stripped. Nothing but moldy crates and water."
Leonard stands steady in the mud. "Grace found a body in the cellar beneath our shelter. It's the girl who wrote the diary. She did not kill herself that thing got her..."
The words hang in the freezing air.
Henry freezes. The remaining color drains from his face, leaving his skin a dull, sickly white.
His jaw sets so hard the muscles along his cheek snap taut, and his hands curl into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white.
"Oh god..." Henry's voice is barely a whisper, thick with a sudden, suffocating rage.
"Whoever... whatever did this. It has to pay!!!."
Leonard reaches out, his heavy hand clamping down on Henry's shoulder. "Keep your head, Henry. We stay calm until we know what we are fighting."
He turns his head, nodding toward a collapsed storage shed across the road. "I spotted an iron shovel leaning against the wall over there.
Drag it to the empty plot beside the house and start digging. I am going down to bring her up."
Henry unclinches his fingers, a raw, hollow sickness burning in his eyes.
He looks at the dirt, nods once, and turns toward the shed.
Leonard walks back into the silent house. The kitchen is empty now. He lifts the iron lantern approaches the corner, and pulls the heavy wooden trapdoor open.
The stench rises instantly—a thick, oily wall of iron and rot. He pulls the high collar of his cloak over his mouth and nose, anchoring it with his teeth.
"Sorry to keep you waiting for this long, little one," Leonard mutters into the dark opening.
He descends the stone steps one by one, the iron lantern swaying in his grip.
The amber light cuts through the gloom, casting long, fractured shadows across the floorboards.
As his boots touch the dirt, the light hits the low ceiling beams. Strips of dried fish, jars of salted lard, and small baskets of shriveled roots sit stacked in neat, precise rows.
The weight of it presses into Leonard's chest. The child hadn't just hidden here; she had systematically pillaged the surrounding houses after the neighbors vanished, hoarding every scrap of food to keep her little brother alive.
"So you took everything," Leonard says softly, his voice muffled by his cloak. "Thank you for this."
He turns the lantern toward the far corner, where the masonry meets the earth.
The dark, crusty stains on the stone lead straight to the small, white shape in the shadows. The ribcage is tiny, delicate as bird bones. But the hip bones end in jagged, crushed fractures.
Deep, grooved gouges mar the surface of the bone where massive teeth sheared through to the marrow.
Leonard's breath hitches. He looks away, fixing his eyes on the floorboards above for three long, heavy heartbeats until his pulse slows.
He reaches up, tears down a coarse canvas sheet used to protect the dried fish, and spreads it flat on the dirt.
One by one, he lifts the small, hollow bones. They weigh almost nothing in his hands, dry and light like twigs. He folds the corners of the canvas over the shape, ties it into a tight bundle, and carries it up the stone stairs into the grey daylight.
The rain beats a frantic rhythm against his shoulders as he steps back into the clearing.
Fifty yards away, Henry's silhouette rises and falls. Henry drives the blade of the shovel deep into the waterlogged earth, using his entire weight to heave heavy clods of red clay to the side.
Leonard walks past the old well.
A voice brushes past his ear. It is soft, clear, and perfectly distinct against the sound of the wind.
"It wasn't your fault, mister. Thank you for finding me."
Leonard breaks his stride. His boots freeze in the red mud.
He stands completely still, the freezing water streaming down his face and neck, his eyes locking onto the empty porches, the hollow windows, the silent treeline. Nothing moves.
The town remains a tomb. He counts his own heartbeats against the roar of the storm.
One.
Two.
Three.
"Sir!" Henry's shout cracks through the downpour, breaking the paralysis. "It's almost deep enough! What are you doing over there? Hurry!"
Leonard draws a slow, ragged breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders. An echo, he tells himself, adjusting the bundle in his arms.
He walks to the edge of the pit.
Kneeling in the mud, Leonard slowly unrolls the canvas sheet, exposing the white bones to the grey sky.
Henry drops the shovel, stepping down into the dark, wet trench.
He reaches up, his arms caked in red clay, and takes the remains with deliberate, shaking care. He lays them at the bottom of the grave, arranging the spine, the tiny ribs, and the small skull.
"Let's cover her up" Leonard says looking away
Henry's fingers hover over the empty space beneath the ribs. He looks up at Leonard, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"But... we haven't placed her lower body yet?"
Leonard's eyes tracking the grey horizon where the storm clouds churn. His jaw sets into a rigid line. "This is all there was, Henry. The rest was eaten. Look at the markings on the bone."
Henry looks down. His eyes dilate as his mind fills in the blanks, visualizing the crushed grooves left by the teeth.
The image of the child alone in the dark cellar, waiting for the thing that chewed through her family, takes root in his thoughts.
Tears well in his eyes, hot and immediate, only to be washed away by the freezing downpour before they can track down his cheeks.
He sinks to his knees in the mud of the grave, his frame shaking. He presses his bare, mud-stained palm against the cold, smooth curve of the child's skull.
"We'll find it," Henry whispers, his voice cracking against the sound of the falling water. "We'll make sure to get your revenge. I swear it to you."
The grave is far too large. There isn't enough of her left to fill it.
Henry climbs out of the pit, his boots heavy with clay. Leonard does not look him in the eye.
The veteran takes the wooden handle of the shovel and begins throwing the wet earth back into the hole.
Thud. Thud.
Henry walks to the side of the house, searching through the debris until he finds a thick, weathered pine timber from a broken fence rail.
He drags it back to the clearing.
When Leonard finishes packing the earth down with his boots, Henry drives the timber deep into the mound at the head of the grave.
He reaches for his throat, unhooking the silver chain of his cross necklace.
The metal is ice against his fingers. He wraps the chain around the rough wood, securing it fast against the wind.
The two men stand side by side, heads bowed, the rain drumming against their body and the fresh, dark mound of earth.
The little girl is no longer alone.