She’d meant whatever lived in the cracks.
Eleanor pulled back, heart hammering. Then she laughed. “Stress,” she said to the empty room. “Grief. Old houses breathe, remember?” window sill crack repair
Eleanor paid and drove home, the plastic bag crinkling on the passenger seat. The house greeted her with its usual creak—the second stair, the kitchen faucet’s drip, the hallway floorboard that sighed like an old dog. Upstairs, she set the caulk gun on the sill and leaned out the window for a better look. She’d meant whatever lived in the cracks
“Time to fix it,” she muttered.