The old man looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read—something between worry and urgency. “I know it sounds strange. But I’m not joking, Hannah. Please, sell it to me. It’s not safe here.”

Her hands tightened around the cup. “What do you mean not safe? You think someone’s coming after me?”

He hesitated. “Let’s just say this place carries problems you can’t see yet. Problems that will hurt you if you stay.”

“Are you threatening me?” she snapped.

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m trying to protect you. Please trust me.”

“Trust you?” she said bitterly. “You show up out of nowhere, sleep on my couch, and then tell me to sell my home for a dollar? I don’t even know your name.”

He sighed and looked out the window. “My name is Harold Brooks. I used to build houses around here decades ago. I know things about this neighborhood most people have forgotten.”

Hannah stood up, her voice trembling. “I think you should go.”