And just like that, there's something else here. He can feel it in his body, a twitch of a particular nerve, a change in his heartbeat, his breath. The house is part of him, after all, and his awareness of its entirety is growing, threatening to outpace him, bury him beneath its sheer infinite mass. He stops, turns his head slightly as if listening, though there's nothing to hear.

He pivots gently, moving toward the sensation of intrusion. He reaches out and feels a hand along the ashy wall, guiding himself up a passage, toward an eventual pinprick of light, a figure silhouetted against it.

He steps closer.

"Who's there," he says, low and almost indifferent.