Chizzy returned to the house as the wind began to howl through Ebonvale's narrow lanes. The sky was turning, clouds heavy with the weight of something waiting to fall. She shut the door behind her and locked it—not out of habit, but instinct. The creak of the wood under her feet was louder today, more deliberate, like the house itself was listening.
She wandered back into the room from last night—the one where the knocks had come from. The air still felt colder there. Stale. She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers running along the ridges of the old photograph she had placed on the nightstand. It hadn't moved again, but its presence still unsettled her.
She rose and began exploring the room. Her hand brushed against the corner of the rug, catching on a tear in the fabric. She pulled it back slowly and revealed a panel of uneven floorboards beneath. One of them looked newer than the others—slightly lighter, less worn.
Her heart ticked faster. She knelt and pried her fingers under the edge. With effort, the board came loose, revealing a hollow space.
Inside lay a wooden box wrapped in a disintegrating cloth. Dust clung to it like skin. She lifted it out carefully and opened the lid.
Letters. Dozens of them. Some were addressed to her aunt, others unsigned. They were aged, written in looping, emotional script, soaked with emotion—love, grief, guilt. And one caught her eye.
Her name. Chizzy, scrawled in the same familiar handwriting she hadn't seen since her mother's death.
She unfolded it, breath held.
But before she could read, the front door slammed downstairs.
She froze. The letter slipped from her hand.
She wasn't alone.