How long had it been? five, maybe six years since Petyr moved to this place. It only made sense that he’d be familiar with every nook and cranny of the quaint little bungalow, and he thought he was.
…until he saw it.
He had been walking a box of old picture frames from living room to attic when his elbow nudged the painting in the corridor – the one painting he had never bothered to move since he got here.
A tiny piece of paper had fallen to his feet, on it written a curious message.
“All isn’t what it seems.”
