The morning air in Maple Hollow carried a strange weight. It wasn’t the cold or the fog. It was something else—a hum of tension beneath the breeze, as if the town itself was holding its breath. Clara felt it before she even stepped outside. Her dreams had been strange again—fragments of voices, a woman calling her name, and the sensation of someone watching her from the shadows. She rubbed her eyes and looked over at the crumpled papers on her desk—notes, scribbled observations, pieces of the puzzle she was slowly pulling together. Her fingers hovered above one photograph—an old image of a woman with striking eyes and a guarded smile. It was the same photo she’d found tucked into the back of her mother’s diary. The woman’s face had haunted her. She reached for her coat and slipped on her boots. If she stayed indoors one more minute, she’d go crazy. Her mind wouldn’t rest, not until she confronted Damien about the last thing he’d said to her. He had seen her mother before the night of

Clara had never believed in ghosts, but standing in the dim light of the attic, surrounded by the faint scent of mildew and secrets, she wasn’t so sure anymore. Dust danced in the sunlight slicing through the cracks in the roof, catching on wooden beams like whispers hanging in the air. Every creak beneath her feet made her heart skip. And the box she had just unearthed—tucked beneath rotten floorboards—felt like something sacred. Or cursed. Damien stood behind her, unusually silent. His hands were stuffed into his coat pockets, but his jaw was clenched. He looked like he’d seen this place before—not just the attic, but the moment itself. Like some forgotten memory had stirred and crawled up his spine. Clara sat cross-legged on the attic floor, the wooden box in front of her. She lifted the lid carefully, as if afraid it might bite. Inside were photos, yellowed envelopes, a velvet ribbon still faintly smelling of lilac. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the top photo. Her mother.

ASHGROVE TOWN The town of Ashgrove was quieter than usual. A chilling kind of quiet, like the earth itself was holding its breath. The wind whispered across rooftops, and shadows stretched a little longer than they should. In the heart of that silence, Damien Creed stood at the edge of what used to be his family’s greenhouse. The air smelled like rust and memory. Faint traces of lilac and burnt wood. This greenhouse was once his mother’s sanctuary—her personal Eden. Now it stood crumbled, its glass panes shattered like the truth that had recently come to light. Damien bent down, fingers brushing against a broken shard. It reflected his face—split in two. "Why did you lie to me?" he whispered into the ruin, his voice cracking. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the wind, his mother’s memory, or the woman who had vanished into history. Footsteps approached from behind. "I thought I’d find you here," Clara’s voice broke gently through the quiet. Damien didn’t turn. His voice was l

The motel room was quiet, too quiet. Damien stood by the window, fingers curled around the curtain's edge as he peered outside, his thoughts far from the dusty parking lot. Clara sat at the small table in the corner, flipping through Raymond Marshall’s file. The air smelled of old wood, cheap air freshener, and something unspoken—anxiety."He kept everything," Clara said softly, laying out the documents. "Even Margaret's last therapy notes."Damien turned. "He was planning something. Or... maybe he was trying to protect her.""Why would someone trying to protect her go into hiding?" she asked, not accusing, but genuinely puzzled.He walked over, dropping into the chair across from her. "Because someone scared him off. Beatrice, most likely. Maybe Luther. Or both."She didn’t argue. Instead, she held up a faded photograph of Margaret with a younger Beatrice. They were smiling, linked arm-in-arm."I can’t wrap my head around it," Clara muttered. "They were friends. Once. Real friends. W