Then I saw it.
And my breath caught.
The room wasn’t just a room.
It was preservation.
A shrine.
Zara.
Her presence was everywhere.
Elegant designer dresses lined the walls in perfect, obsessive order—silk evening gowns that shimmered faintly under the light, cashmere sweaters folded with precision, tailored blouses still holding the shape of her life.
The fabrics looked untouched, yet not abandoned.
Cared for. Protected.
As if someone expected her to come back and wear them again.
A faint floral scent lingered in the air.
Soft. Feminine.
Familiar in a way that made my skin prickle.
Glass display cases stood against one wall, filled with jewelry that caught the light like fragments of memory—diamond necklaces, emerald drop earrings, sapphire bracelets, each piece arranged with almost reverent care.
In the center, a delicate gold locket rested on velvet, engraved with intricate vines curling around its surface like something alive.
Nothing here felt random.
Nothing here felt temporary.
Even the smallest objects told a story.
A half-empty bottle of perfume sat carefully placed on a vanity table, as if it had only been set down moments ago.
Love notes written in elegant handwriting rested beneath a glass frame, the paper thick and expensive, the ink slightly faded but still intact.
And then—
The journals.
Several leather-bound pregnancy journals stacked neatly on an antique table, their spines worn from handling, their pages heavy with meaning I could already feel before opening them.
A chill crawled up my spine.
This wasn’t storage. It wasn’t even memory.
It was worship.
I moved deeper into the room despite myself, my footsteps slower now, almost reluctant.
My fingers trembled slightly as I reached out, brushing against the silk of one dress.
The fabric was impossibly soft, cool beneath my touch, as if it had been waiting for years to be worn again.
