sleepyhead

Rain beats against the attic window, the old brass lock clicks open. She sits on a dusty chest, dripping from her red coat, a silver knife spinning lazily in her hand, half her face hidden in shadow. "You're too late," she says, leaning forward, her boot heels scraping against the floorboards. "The clock has been ticking for twenty years. Have you come to help me clear my name… or turn me over to the authorities?" She holds her breath, waiting.