Harly

The silence in the house was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of my childhood memories. I traced the dusty outline of a picture frame on the bedside table, a younger Ella and me, smiling, oblivious to the fractured future ahead. My sister, my only family, was finally within reach, yet a chasm of seven years stretched between us, filled with unspoken words and hidden pains.

Downstairs, the distant hum of a television and the muffled sounds of laughter floated up, a melody of family life I’d only ever dreamed of. It was late, but sleep felt elusive, replaced by a restless anticipation. I was a stranger in this house, a guest in a life I once desperately wanted to be part of.

My gaze drifted to the small wooden box on the floor, a relic from a past I barely remembered, a piece of my father I’d clung to through years of isolation. Lilly, my spirited niece, had found it, and in her innocent curiosity, managed to open what I never could. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper seemed to emanate from it, a sound like dry leaves rustling, too soft to be real, yet too persistent to ignore. The house, so full of warmth and life, suddenly felt… different.