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They dug. Not deep—the water table was high. They found her: not a skeleton, but a form preserved in the cold, still chalk, the stones still tied to her with rotted rope. They brought her up gently, laid her on the grass, and for the first time in fifty years, the pump gave a long, shuddering groan.

They buried Alice Fairfax in the little churchyard up the lane, with a headstone that read: Healer. Forgotten. Now Remembered. ashley lane water

She woke up parched, drank another glass from the tap, and the dreams only grew louder. They dug