“Must’ve been a trick of the light, ma’am,” he said, wiping his hands.
She pried the grille loose. What stared back was not leaves. clogged outside drain
Her grandmother’s button. From the coat she’d buried her in, twelve years ago. “Must’ve been a trick of the light, ma’am,”
The outside drain sat at the bottom of the back steps, a square iron grille choked with a slick, black ooze. A shallow lake had formed, lapping at the foundation bricks. “Just leaves,” she muttered, grabbing a trowel. Her grandmother’s button
It was the third straight day of rain, and the old Victorian house at 14 Maple Lane was slowly drowning from the outside in.
She never told anyone what she saw next. She simply replaced the grille, walked inside, and called a plumber. When he arrived, he found the drain perfectly clean. No roots. No fur. No button.