by Susan Hill

Coming home one evening from meeting with a client, rare books dealer Adam Snow takes a wrong turn and ends up outside a derelict Edwardian house. For some strange reason he is drawn to this building and its wilderness of gardens and finds himself wandering through the overgrown weeds. And, standing all alone, he feels the strangest of sensations. A small hand, in his. As though he were a father taking hold of a son’s hand. But he is not a father. And there is no child.