I never noticed how many white roses grow here. Bush, after bush, lines the path leading all the way to the pavilion where I sit now.
A cool breeze brushes against my cheeks, slipping through my hair and tugging loose strands behind me as the swing creaks. The wood presses lightly beneath me as I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, tucking my legs beneath it.
In one hand, I’m holding a half empty cup of cold coffee. In the other, I hold L.R.’s diary.
I tilt my head toward the house. The curtain moves.
It could be the breeze. Or it could be Lily.
I see her more often now. I don’t question it anymore. I have already accepted what she is. Part of me.
I wonder what I was like as a child. If I laughed as easily. Or maybe I was more like Helena, the girl from the pages I keep returning to.
I wish I had met her. She seems like a lovely child, in this lovely house.
My eyes fall back to the pages in my lap. I open the diary somewhere in the middle, not searching for anything specific, just letting it choose for me.
Then I lift the cup to my lips and take a slow sip.
I close the diary and stare into the distance, trying to find the place where I know this story from. It’s just out of reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue.
I glance down at the tree, then the church beyond it. Victor’s words are still in my head, that everything is connected. I try to pull the pieces together, but nothing fits. My mind stays blank.
Something moves at the edge of my vision. I turn slightly and see Lily standing at the window. The curtain moves again, and she isn’t alone this time. The woman from the other night is beside her. She’s holding Lily’s hand.
A chill runs through me. I watch them, barely breathing.
Does Lily know who she is? Are they both dead?
Or is this just something my mind has made up?
I let out a shaky breath. My hand trembles in my lap. A sharp pain spreads through the nerves in my right hand when I move it. I avoid looking toward the right wing because I know the piano is there. I know what it will remind me of. I’m not able to touch it, let alone play.
Above me, the clouds shift, swallowing the sun. The light fades, leaving everything dimmer. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and push myself to my feet. And I walk back toward the house.
I wish I could be more than something placed here to make this house feel alive.
Maybe I am just lonely.
As I reach the front door, I notice a paper box sitting on the doorstep. I lean down and pick it up, trying to hold everything at once, the coffee, the diary, the box slipping against my fingers.
I push the door open with my shoulder and step inside. I set the coffee and diary on the table, keeping the box in my hands.
I shake it. Something is inside. It sounds like rocks knocking together.
My stomach tightens.
I lift the lid. My gaze falls on a note on top. It’s from The Caller.
I raise it slowly, and I notice bones beneath it.
It’s someone’s hand.
My brows pull together as the box slips from my grip and hits the floor. My heart pounds too fast and I take a step back.
I swallow, forcing myself to move closer again. I nudge the box with the tip of my sneaker, pushing it just enough to see inside without touching it.
“It’s bones, Aurelia,” I whisper. “Probably a prank.”
