Sana sat on the floor of the upstairs hallway, back against the cool wall, knees pulled to her chest. The locket felt heavier in her hand now, like it had grown more solid since yesterday. Or maybe she was just more aware of its weight—like it wasn't just a thing anymore, but a presence.
It was nearly midnight again. The house was supposed to be asleep.
But Thornwick never slept.
From the end of the hallway, a door creaked softly open.
Not slammed.
Not flung.
Just eased—like someone was peeking out to see if the coast was clear.
She rose slowly, stepping soundlessly down the hall, barefoot. The floorboards no longer creaked under her weight. It was as if the house had accepted her now, made space for her movements.
The door that had opened was the one to the northwest study—a room Jacob had said was off-limits.
She pushed it open all the way.
Inside, the air was different. Warmer, but stale. The scent of old candle wax and paper hung thick. Dust floated in columns of moonlight pouring through high, curtainless windows.
Sana moved past a covered desk, toward the far shelf. The walls were lined with books—mostly ledgers and histories—but above one shelf was a portrait. Not painted. Photographic. Black and white. Faded. A young woman stood in the image, wearing a gown with buttons up to the throat.
She wore a green ribbon.
Sana stared.
She pulled the locket from her pocket and opened it.
The same face.
The photo on the wall and the image inside the locket were not similar—they were identical.
A wind brushed her hair back.
She turned.
The door was closed again.
But she hadn't closed it.
---
The next morning, Jacob found her in the breakfast room, arms crossed on the table, locket beside her, eyes hollow.
"You went in the northwest study," he said. Not a question.
Sana didn't look up. "She's real."
Jacob nodded slowly.
Mary came in quietly, carrying a tray of toast and honey. Her eyes flicked from the locket to Sana's face.
"She was my grandmother's sister," Jacob said at last. "Her name was never spoken after the war. We only ever called her 'the quiet one.'"
"Why?"
Jacob sat down. "Because she spoke to things that weren't there."
Sana felt a deep chill bloom beneath her ribs.
"She said the house had voices. That the rooms could move. That memories stuck to the walls like cobwebs."
"She wasn't wrong," Sana whispered.
"No," Mary said. "She wasn't."
---
In the days that followed, the house changed its rhythm.
Shadows grew longer where there was no sun. Doors opened before someone reached them. Mirrors showed things slightly out of sync.
The twins whispered about music playing in the walls.
Christopher stopped speaking entirely.
Catherine tried to be strong. She joked, she cleaned, she told stories at dinner. But her eyes grew darker. Her smiles became brittle.
One night, she told Sana, "The house doesn't like me."
Sana didn't say what she was thinking:
The house likes me too much.
---
It was on the seventh night that Sana heard the voice again.
Not whispering.
Calling.
From the garden.
She slipped out of bed and crossed to the window. The garden was visible again—though it shouldn't be.
And in the center, by the fountain, the girl was there. Not standing.
Digging.
Hands clawing at the soil, frantic, scraping, searching.
Sana pulled on her boots and coat and made her way down the stairs.
She stepped into the garden just as the wind began to rise.
The girl looked up.
Her face was streaked with dirt. Her eyes were hollow sockets of shadow.
She opened her mouth.
And Sana heard her own voice echo back:
"Help me remember."