The road to Hawthorne curled like a sleeping serpent, narrow and cracked, weaving through dense, whispering woods that grew darker with every mile. Trees leaned unnaturally close, their branches thick and twisted, like they were eavesdropping. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and something older. Elora had been watching the forest for almost an hour without blinking, her emerald eyes fixed on the shapes flickering between the trees.
"Stop staring like it's going to speak back," Mira said from the driver's seat, her voice cool but tired.
"It might," Elora replied softly. "It's not… quiet. Not like other forests."
Mira didn't answer. Her fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, and Elora noticed.
They hadn't spoken much since the funeral. The silence between them had been filled with things unspoken—like the letter Mira received just days after Elora's parents were buried, or the way she packed everything without consulting Elora, claiming they were going to "start fresh" in a town Elora had never even heard of. Hawthorne. It sounded old. It felt old.
And now, it was swallowing them whole.
The car crested a hill and came to a slow roll as the road ended in a narrow cobblestone path flanked by rusted iron gates. Just beyond, nestled in a valley thick with fog, was the town.
Elora's breath caught.
Hawthorne looked like something torn from an ancient painting—its buildings moss-covered and crooked, its streets barely wide enough for a single car. Smoke rose from scattered chimneys, and even in daylight, the place looked dim.
Mira leaned forward, squinting through the windshield as though seeing it for the first time too. "Still here," she murmured. "I half expected it to vanish."
"You've been here before?" Elora asked.
"Long ago." She turned the car into the gate's archway. "Too long to matter."
Elora didn't believe her.
They passed a few narrow houses, a stone chapel with shattered stained glass, and a dried-up fountain overtaken by ivy. The people they passed on foot didn't wave. They stared—blank, unreadable expressions etched deep into weathered faces. Children paused mid-play. A woman clutched her coat tighter as they drove by.
Elora glanced at Mira. "Is it just me or…"
"They don't like strangers," Mira interrupted. "They'll get over it."
"And if they don't?"
"Then they'll keep staring," she said.
The house waited at the edge of town, crouched beneath a canopy of bone-thin trees. A wrought iron fence ran along the perimeter, broken in several places. The house itself was tall and narrow, with peeling white paint and boarded-up windows on the top floor. A single porch light flickered like a dying firefly.
"You're joking," Elora said, stepping out of the car. "This place is haunted."
Mira popped the trunk. "It's ancestral."
"It's abandoned."
Mira shot her a look over the roof of the car. "You'd be surprised what still lives."
Elora opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. The forest behind the house seemed to lean forward, watching her, listening to every word.
"Let's get inside," Mira said, already dragging her suitcase up the crumbling stone steps. "We'll talk after you eat."
The interior smelled of cedar, dust, and lavender—beneath it, something richer, more earthy, like wet leaves. The furniture was mismatched: a velvet armchair beside a modern coat rack, a lace curtain covering a cracked window. It looked like someone had been keeping it just barely alive.
Mira moved through the rooms with eerie familiarity, lighting oil lamps and opening creaking shutters.
"You lived here?"
Mira didn't look up. "A long time ago."
"When?"
She paused at the fireplace, staring into the cold ash. "Before your mother."
There it was again—that wall. That distance. Elora folded her arms. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened to them? Really happened?"
"I already told you," Mira said too quickly. "It was an accident."
"You didn't cry at the funeral."
"I don't cry in public."
"You didn't cry at all."
Mira lit another lamp. "Eat first. Talk later."
"You always say that."
"And I'm always right."
Dinner was a quiet affair—rosemary potatoes and steamed greens Mira pulled out from a garden Elora hadn't noticed earlier. Everything smelled like it had been pulled from the earth moments ago. Mira ate slowly. Elora barely touched her plate.
"I don't like it here," she said at last, pushing her fork aside.
"No one does, at first."
"It's creepy to me."
Mira's eyes flicked up. "It is?."
"Seriously?"
"Eat," she said again, but softer this time.
Elora shoved her chair back. "I'm not hungry. I'm not okay, Mira. I see things. I feel things. And you're acting like none of it matters."
Mira wiped her mouth with a napkin. "You'd get used to it"
Elora scoffed.
"Yeah right" she muttered
Mira stood, walked to the window, and parted the curtain with two fingers. The trees outside looked skeletal, the branches almost pressed against the glass.
"This place brings back memories" Mira said quietly. "Memories that sleep in other towns. Memories that sleep in people."
Elora gazed out the window deep in thoughts
---------------
Later, after Elora had dragged her suitcase up the narrow stairs to the attic bedroom—a space filled with moth-eaten quilts and a single window overlooking the forest—she sat on the bed and tried not to cry.
But her hands were shaking.
The silence wasn't silent. The wood groaned. The walls breathed. The wind pressed against the house like it was trying to find a way in.
She couldn't sleep.
At midnight, she went downstairs to find Mira seated at the kitchen table, drinking dark tea.
"You always stay up?" Elora asked.
"Here, yes."
Elora sat across from her. "Why?"
Mira stared into her cup. "Because the forest doesn't sleep."
A long pause.
Elora whispered, "Did they die because of this place?"
Mira looked up.
Her eyes were too young, too clear, and yet behind them sat something ancient—something heavy.
"I don't know," Mira said.
"But you might ?"
Mira reached across the table and took her hand. It was the first time she'd touched Elora since the funeral.
"I brought you here for a reason . That's all I can say."
"No, it's not," Elora said, holding her gaze. "You're lying to me."
A flicker of emotion crossed Mira's face—pain, maybe. Guilt. Fear. It vanished too fast.
"You're not ready for the truth."
"Then tell me anyway," Elora snapped.
Mira let go of her hand. "Sleep. Tomorrow is another day."
"Am saying it again I don't like this place ."
Mira stood. "Then you're going to learn to do so Elora."
She turned, paused at the kitchen doorway, and added softly:
"Just remember— this is where you belong you are home Elora, your parents wanted to bring to your here for a long time ."
Mira's eyes softened as she pulled Elora for a hug.