Letters Across Time

By : Twinklelore

_____________________________________________________________________

                                                              (1)

Clara Jennings used to think she had everything figured out.A steady editing job at a small publishing house in Boston. A cozy, overpriced apartment with brick walls, creaky floors, and a fire escape she never quite trusted. Friends who knew her coffee order by heart. A life that made sense, even if it wasn’t always exciting.She liked the quiet predictability of it all, wake up, work, dinner, a book before bed, repeat. Some people lived for adventure. Clara lived for routines.She even had plans, big ones: save up, maybe open a little bookstore someday, tucked between some forgotten streets, where she could drink terrible coffee and talk about her favorite novels with anyone who wandered in.But life, she was learning, didn’t care about carefully laid plans.First came the phone call, the one where her boss used words like "downsizing" and "economic uncertainty" and "we're truly sorry." Then the letter from her landlord announcing a rent hike that made her stomach twist. And then, as if the universe was really trying to drive the point home, came Nick.Nick, with his sheepish smile and the speech she’d never forget:"I just feel stuck, Clara. I think I need to figure out who I am, you know? Alone".As if three years of building a life together meant nothing. As if she was the anchor he needed to cut loose to find himself.Clara didn't cry. Not then, not even later when she packed up the tiny reminders of a life she thought was solid, photos, shared coffee mugs, concert tickets tucked into books.Instead, she moved through the days like she was underwater.Blurry.Soundless.Waiting for something to pull her to the surface.

Ashville was never part of the plan.It was a small town she'd barely heard of, the kind of place people passed through on their way to somewhere more important. But when she saw the listing, affordable one bedroom. Vintage charm.Quiet neighborhood, something in her chest stirred.Maybe hope. Maybe desperation.She told herself it would just be temporary. A few months, enough time to find her footing again. Enough time to stop feeling like she was made of broken pieces.Now, standing in the middle of her mostly empty apartment with its lopsided windows and stubborn radiator, Clara wasn't sure if she had made a brave choice or a stupid one.Maybe both.She looked around at the bare walls, the faded hardwood floors, the built in bookshelf that stretched almost to the ceiling. A blank canvas, she thought. A place where no one knew her. A place where she could be anything, or nothing, if she wanted.It wasn’t the life she had planned.But maybe, just maybe, it was the one she needed.And somewhere, hidden within these old walls, a story was already waiting for her.

_____________________________________________________________________

(2)

The first night in a new place was always the hardest.Clara knew that, but it didn’t make the silence any less loud.She sat cross legged on the floor, a half unpacked box of kitchen stuff beside her, eating cold Chinese takeout straight from the container. No plates yet. No silverware either, unless you counted the single plastic fork the restaurant tossed into the bag.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a lazy drizzle, tapping against the window like an old friend trying to be polite. Somewhere in the building, someone was playing an old jazz record, soft, scratchy, like it was leaking from another era.

Clara didn't mind.The noise made the apartment feel a little less empty.She glanced around.The living room had potential, she supposed, if she ever got around to decorating it. A sagging couch she'd found secondhand. A chipped coffee table. A few framed prints still wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the wall.

And that bookshelf.It stretched almost to the ceiling, built directly into the wall, dusty and shadowed in the corner like a forgotten secret. She loved it immediately. It felt old, heavy with the kinds of stories you couldn't find in bookstores anymore.

Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would explore the town.Maybe find the grocery store. Maybe hunt down a coffee shop. Maybe smile at a stranger just to prove she could.But tonight, she just wanted to sit.Breathe.Start small.Clara tucked her feet under her and picked up a book from the nearest box, a battered copy of Little Women she'd owned since she was twelve. She cracked it open and tried to lose herself in the familiar comfort of the March sisters’ world.

Half an hour later, she was fast asleep, the book slipping from her hands, the rain whispering against the windows like a lullaby.She didn’t notice the way the draft in the room stirred the loose edges of the bookshelf.Didn’t hear the softest of sounds, like a sigh, almost as if the apartment itself was finally waking up.

Tomorrow, she would find it.But tonight, Clara Jennings slept, blissfully unaware that her life was about to change.

_____________________________________________________________________

(3)

Morning came with soft gray light and the low hum of rain still pattering against the windows.Clara woke up stiff and disoriented, the copy of Little Women still open across her chest.For a moment, she forgot where she was.Then the peeling wallpaper and creaky floors reminded her.With a groan, she sat up and surveyed the chaos around her.

Boxes everywhere. Dust on every surface. A radiator that coughed loudly every few minutes like it was personally offended by her presence.She needed a distraction.Something mindless. Physical.Cleaning, she decided.

Grabbing an old towel and the half empty bottle of cleaner she'd thrown into one of the kitchen boxes, Clara got to work. She scrubbed the counters, wiped down the windows, swept the floors. The apartment wasn’t filthy, exactly, just tired, neglected, like it had been waiting a long time for someone to care enough to notice.

She was halfway through scrubbing the living room floor when she spotted it.A loose floorboard, near the far wall, just behind the built in bookshelf.It didn’t sit right with the others, slightly raised at one edge, like it had shifted over time.Curious, Clara set the broom aside and crouched down. She dug her fingernails under the edge and gave it a tug.

The board popped up with a sharp crack, revealing a shallow, dust-lined hollow beneath.Inside, nestled against the dark wood, was something small and metallic.

A key.

Clara picked it up carefully. It was old, iron maybe, with a twisty, ornate bow at the top. The kind of key that belonged in a fairy tale or a mystery novel.Her heart thudded a little harder against her ribs.

She looked around the apartment again, her eyes sweeping the walls, the ceiling, searching for something that didn't belong.And then she saw it.

Near the far corner of the living room ceiling, almost hidden behind a heavy beam, was a small, square wooden door. Barely big enough to crawl through.An attic entrance.Locked, of course.

Clara stared up at it, the key heavy in her hand, a thrill running through her chest like static.Maybe moving here wouldn’t be so boring after all

_____________________________________________________________________

(4)

It took Clara a minute to find something sturdy enough to stand on.The old dining chair in the kitchen wobbled dangerously when she tested it, but she figured if she was careful and lucky it wouldn’t collapse beneath her.

She balanced herself and reached up, sliding the old iron key into the lock.It stuck at first, refusing to turn, but after a bit of wiggling and a muttered curse, there was a soft click.The little attic door swung open with a long, reluctant creak.

A gust of musty air spilled out, carrying the scent of old wood, mothballs, and something else, something sweet and faint, like dried flowers.Clara wrinkled her nose but grinned despite herself.It smelled exactly the way she thought hidden places should smell.Grabbing the flashlight from her phone, she hoisted herself up, poking her head through the opening.

The attic was tiny, more of a crawl space than a real room, and everything inside was coated in a fine layer of dust. The slanted ceiling forced her to hunch over as she crawled inside.Old wooden beams crisscrossed above, and in the farthest corner, half-hidden under a tattered blanket, sat a small chest.

The kind with iron clasps and worn leather edges, straight out of some forgotten era.Clara’s pulse quickened.She shuffled forward, brushing aside cobwebs, and tugged the chest into the light.The leather cracked under her fingers as she unfastened the clasps. The lid stuck for a moment, like it hadn’t been opened in decades. And then, with a soft groan, it gave way.

Inside, nestled carefully as if someone had once treasured them, was a stack of old letters.Yellowed with age. Edges curled. Ink faded in places, but still beautiful.Some were tied together with fraying bits of blue ribbon. Others were loose, scattered like fallen leaves.

Clara reached out, her fingers trembling a little, and picked up the one resting on top.The paper was soft, fragile, and smelled faintly of lavender.There was no address, no stamp.Only two words, written in looping, elegant handwriting:

"For You."

Clara swallowed, the weight of the moment settling over her like a blanket.She wasn’t sure who the letters were meant for, or why they had been left here.But somehow, deep down, she knew:They were waiting for her.

_____________________________________________________________________

(5)

Clara sat cross-legged on the attic floor, the old chest open beside her, its insides a quiet mess of yellowed letters and blue ribbon.She couldn’t stop staring.They were so delicate, so intentional.Not just scraps of paper or forgotten notes. These were kept. Preserved. Loved.

Her fingers hovered over the one on top.She could already see the ink, looping and elegant, like it came from a different century.She reached for it.The moment she touched it, the attic seemed to exhale around her.

A strange stillness filled the space.And then,

Knock knock knock.

Clara froze.Three quick knocks echoed up through the floorboards, crisp and clear.She blinked. Looked down at the letter. Then another knock, this time followed by a voice.

“Hello? New neighbor? Anyone home?”

Clara scrambled out of the attic hatch, brushing dust off her jeans as she half tripped down the steps.When she opened the door, she was still catching her breath,and then her eyes widened.

“Sarah?”

The woman on the porch gave her a grin. That same grin Clara remembered from high school hallways and cafeteria tables.

“Well, look at that. I knew it was you! Clara Jennings,” Sarah said, stepping forward with a small plate wrapped in foil. “Welcome to the building. I live just upstairs.”

Clara laughed, still stunned. “You’re my neighbor?”

“I am now. Moved in a couple years ago. Small town, right?”

They hugged, and just like that, the attic and the letters and the questions waiting in the crawl space dissolved for the moment.Clara gestured her inside, suddenly grateful for the distraction. “Come in. I’d kill for familiar company.”Sarah handed her the plate. “Chocolate chip. Still slightly warm if you’re lucky.”

Clara smiled, shutting the door behind them. “This is unreal.”

And just like that, the chest in the attic was forgotten.For now.

_____________________________________________________________________

(6)

Clara poured them both mugs of instant coffee, because she hadn’t unpacked her French press yet, and they settled into the mismatched cushions on her living room floor, the plate of cookies between them.

“I can’t believe this,” Clara said, laughing softly. “Of all the people I could’ve ended up living near, it’s you.”

Sarah grinned, tucking her legs underneath her. “I know, right? This town’s full of surprises. I never thought I’d end up here either. Life just took some weird turns.”

Clara nodded, her smile fading a little. “Yeah. Same.”

There was a pause between them, not awkward, just full of unspoken history.Sarah looked around the apartment, her eyes scanning the high ceilings and cracked molding. “This place is charming, in that haunted-by-memories kind of way.”

Clara smirked. “Exactly what the listing promised.”

Sarah leaned closer, voice lowering. “Actually, I’ve heard things about this building.”Clara raised an eyebrow. “Things?”

“You know how small towns are. Rumors. Stories passed around for fun. Someone once said this building used to belong to a reclusive woman, lived alone most of her life. Bit of a mystery.”

Clara’s eyes flickered toward the ceiling, toward the attic, hidden just above their heads.“Did she leave suddenly?” she asked.

Sarah shrugged. “No one really knows. Some say she passed away here. Others think she just vanished. Romantic, right? Like one of those moody novels we used to fake-read in lit class.”

Clara chuckled, but her fingers tightened slightly around her mug.She almost said something about the letters. Almost.

But the warmth of the moment made her hesitate. She wasn’t even sure what she’d found yet. And part of her wanted to keep it private—at least a little longer.

They talked late into the evening, drifting into old memories and new laughs, the sound of rain beginning again outside the windows.By the time Sarah left, promising a real dinner soon, Clara’s body ached with exhaustion, but her mind buzzed with everything unsaid.

She stood for a long moment in the hallway after closing the door.Then she looked up.The attic would have to wait. Again.But not for long.

_____________________________________________________________________

(7)

After Sarah left, Clara stood in the center of her apartment, the quietness pressing in around her. The soft hum of the fridge and the distant sound of rain were the only company.She glanced up at the attic door, then back down at the letter, still waiting for her on the coffee table. The anticipation was almost maddening.

Clara had never believed in fate, or destiny, or any of those otherworldly things. She was a practical woman. A scientist, in fact.But as she stared at the letter, its edges curling slightly, its ink faded with time, she felt something stir deep inside her. Something she couldn’t name.

She reached for it.

The paper felt fragile, almost too delicate to touch, but she unfolded it with slow, careful movements. Each crease made the air around her seem thicker, like time itself was holding its breath.

The writing was elegant, flowing, and impossibly neat. The ink had bled just a little in places, but the words were still readable, almost alive in their own way.She began to read, her voice soft, as if she were reading a prayer.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

I know you’ve found the letters.

Maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe you were meant to. But now that you’ve seen them, I know you can’t ignore what’s been left behind.

I wrote to you because there was no one else. There was no one left who could understand, who could see what was hidden, what was buried in plain sight.

This house, this place... it isn’t just a house. It holds more than the walls around you, more than the floors you walk on. It holds a secret. A secret you have to uncover.

But be careful. Time is a tricky thing. It bends. It breaks. And when you find what’s waiting for you, you might not like what you discover.

The key I left is only the beginning. What you find will be the end.You’ll know when you’re ready to understand. Until then..

Trust nothing. Trust no one.

—L

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. The words burned their way through her, leaving a strange, unsettled feeling in their wake. She reread the last line, her mind struggling to make sense of it.

Trust nothing. Trust no one.

Her fingers tightened around the letter, her pulse quickening.What kind of person wrote something like this? What had they been trying to tell her? And more importantly: Why her?

She sat there, the letter still in her hand, staring at the floor as a cold chill swept through the room.She glanced over at the attic hatch. The chest was still there, waiting.

The key. The letters. The message.

It was all starting to feel less like coincidence and more like something she couldn’t avoid.Clara’s heart pounded in her chest.

The mystery had only just begun.

_____________________________________________________________________

(8)

That night, Clara lay awake long after the lights went out, the letter pressed to her chest. The words echoed in her mind, over and over again.

Trust nothing. Trust no one.

She tossed and turned, her thoughts a whirl of confusion and unease. Her practical mind screamed for answers, logical explanations for what she’d found, what she’d read. But no matter how much she tried to reason, the sensation of something unseen, something waiting, clung to her.

The apartment felt colder than usual, even though the radiator hummed steadily in the corner. Every creak in the old wood seemed magnified in the silence, every shadow longer than it should’ve been.She closed her eyes, trying to push the thoughts away. But they kept creeping back, wrapping themselves around her thoughts like a fog.

Eventually, sleep found her, but it was fitful. Images of dark hallways, locked doors, and faded faces flickered behind her eyelids. She saw herself, walking through the halls of the apartment, but it wasn’t just her. It was someone else, someone familiar, their face just out of reach. And always, there was the attic door, waiting.

When the sun finally filtered through the blinds, it did nothing to ease the heaviness in her chest. The first rays of morning light seemed too bright against the lingering shadows of the night.Clara blinked awake to the soft sound of a knock on her door. She groaned and rubbed her eyes, the warm blankets suddenly feeling far too inviting.

“Clara?” Sarah’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Time to wake up, sleepyhead. I brought you some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Don’t make me knock again!”

Clara grinned, grateful for the distraction. She pulled herself out of bed and, with a stretch, opened the door.Sarah stood there, holding a paper bag with the unmistakable scent of fresh coffee wafting from it. “You up yet?”

“Barely,” Clara muttered, smiling despite herself. “I thought I’d sleep for a week after last night.”Sarah raised an eyebrow, stepping inside. “What happened last night? You okay?”

Clara waved off the concern. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just...weird dreams. Nothing I can’t shake off.”

“Good,” Sarah said, setting the bag down on the counter. “Here. Breakfast. I’m officially inviting you for a day out in town. You need it.”

Clara chuckled, sitting down at the kitchen table as Sarah handed her a coffee. “Alright, what’s the plan?”

"Well,” Sarah began, taking a seat across from her, “we’re going to explore the town. You’ve barely seen anything, right? And if we’re being honest, we both need to get out of the apartment before it drives us crazy.”

Clara’s smile faded just a little. “Sounds good. I could use some fresh air.”

They ate together in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Clara, her mind racing again, spoke up. “Hey, do you remember that old building on the corner? The one with the red brick?”

Sarah glanced up from her sandwich, nodding. “Yeah. It’s been abandoned for years. I think they were going to sell it or tear it down. Why?”

Clara hesitated. “I don’t know. It just...looks familiar. Maybe I saw it somewhere before. Or maybe it’s just the vibe of the place. Like it’s got a history.”

Sarah leaned back, her expression playful. “History? Oh, please. This town has history dripping out of its cracks. Don’t get me started on the ghost stories around here.”

Clara smiled faintly. “Ghost stories?”

“Mmhmm. Old rumors, things that’ve been whispered about for decades. The usual spooky stuff. But honestly, I don’t put much stock in it. Just stories people tell to pass the time.”

Clara’s mind raced again, the odd feeling of déjà vu gnawing at her. It was strange, the more she learned about this town, the more she felt like she was connected to it in some way.

“Maybe you’re right,” Clara said, pushing the unease aside. “I guess I’m just...thinking too much.”

“Welcome to my world.” Sarah winked. “Come on, let’s get out of here before you end up rethinking everything.”

The two women grabbed their coats and headed out the door, the crisp morning air greeting them with a cool embrace. As they walked down the street, Sarah began pointing out landmarks, sharing stories about the people and places that made up the town.

But Clara’s thoughts kept drifting back to the apartment, to the attic, to the letters.And to the strange feeling that something, or someone, was waiting for her to uncover the truth.

_____________________________________________________________________

(9)

The smell of fresh pastries wafted from the corner bakery, and Sarah practically skipped toward the door. “Two minutes,” she said with a grin. “They make these honey-cinnamon croissants that taste like heaven. Want anything?”

“I’m good,” Clara replied, distracted.

As Sarah disappeared inside, Clara's gaze drifted down the street, and there it was again. The shop. Selwyn Antiques And Curiosities.

She hadn’t noticed it the first time they passed, but now it stood out like a sore thumb. The sign creaked gently above the door, the windows fogged and old fashioned. It looked… untouched by time.

She found herself walking toward it, pulled by something she couldn't name. Her fingers brushed the brass doorknob and, to her surprise, it turned easily. A soft bell chimed as she stepped inside.

The air was dense with the scent of old books, wood polish, and something faintly metallic. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass in dusty shafts, casting strange patterns on the worn rug.

Antique clocks lined the walls, all frozen at different times. Typewriters, music boxes, and strange glass orbs filled every corner.

“Can I help you?” came a voice.

An elderly man stood behind the counter, dressed in an old-fashioned suit, complete with a pocket watch chain. His face was lined but kind, and his eyes shimmered like they knew more than they should.

“I...” Clara hesitated. “I’m not sure. I just saw the shop and...came in.”

The man smiled softly.“Things have a way of drawing the right people.”

Her eyes landed on something beneath the glass counter. A sealed letter with the exact same wax insignia as the one she found in the attic.

Her breath hitched.“Where did you get that?”

But the man only tilted his head, his tone cryptic. “Some letters wait years to be opened.Others....longer.”

Before she could ask more, her phone buzzed. A text from Sarah, “Where’d you go?”

Clara blinked, then looked up again, but the man was gone. The counter was empty. The room felt colder. Still.

Uneasy, she slipped out of the shop and crossed the street just as Sarah stepped out of the bakery with two croissants in hand.

“There you are!” Sarah said.“I thought I lost you.”

“I was just in that shop across the street,” Clara said, pointing.“It’s called Selwyn Antiques. Weird place. I met this man...”

Sarah's smile faded.“Wait... what? Clara, that place has been shut down since before we were born.”

Clara turned sharply. The street was quiet. Where the shop had been, there were now boarded up windows, a faded sign barely hanging by one chain, and vines curling around the doorframe.It looked abandoned. Forgotten. Dead.

“But I was just inside,” Clara murmured, heart pounding.

Sarah gave her a sideways glance. “Clara, you sure you’re okay?”

Clara didn’t respond. She just stared at the shop.The air felt colder again.Something wasn’t right.

_____________________________________________________________________

(10)

The rest of the afternoon blurred by in a haze.Sarah chatted about the town’s upcoming street fair, introduced Clara to the local florist, and even dragged her into a quirky little bookstore. But Clara barely heard any of it.She kept glancing down the street, toward that boarded-up storefront.

Selwyn Antiques And Curiosities.

It was impossible. She’d been inside. She’d spoken to that man. She had seen that letter.

But now...it looked like no one had entered in years.

That night, after Sarah said goodbye and the apartment fell quiet again, Clara sat cross legged on her bed, her laptop warming her thighs.

She typed the name slowly, carefully.

“Selwyn Antiques And Curiosities”

The first few results were generic antique forums, nothing helpful. But then... a link to an old digital archive from the town’s historical society popped up.She clicked.

An article from 1986.“Fire Destroys Selwyn’s Antiques,  Owner Presumed Dead.”

Clara’s breath caught.

The grainy black and white photo showed the shop in its prime, stained glass windows, the same sign, the same brass door handle. Beneath the headline was a short paragraph

"A mysterious fire consumed the antique shop late Sunday night. Neighbors say they saw smoke just after midnight. No one was found inside, but the owner, a man named Edgar Selwyn, was never seen again. The cause of the fire remains unknown."

Clara stared at the image. It was the same man.The kind eyes. The suit. The pocket watch chain.

She leaned closer, chills running down her spine. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad as she clicked on the last scanned photo in the article, a close up of an object recovered from the ruins.

A wax seal.

A looping L, half burned.

Her heart thudded.

She closed the laptop and sat back, the room spinning slightly. Her thoughts jumped back to the attic, to the first letter she found. What if there were more connections? What if this wasn't just coincidence?

What if she hadn’t imagined that shop at all?And more importantly...

What if the letters were never meant to be found by accident?

_____________________________________________________________________

(11)

The attic felt colder that night.Clara crept up the narrow staircase, flashlight in hand, her heart beating a little faster with every creak of the steps. The air smelled of dust and cedar and something faintly... wrong. Like old paper soaked in secrets.

She paused at the top, the beam of light sweeping across the wooden floorboards and cobwebs. The old chest still sat in the far corner, unmoved. Untouched.But this time, it didn’t look like just a dusty relic.

It looked like it knew she was coming.Clara knelt down, brushing her fingers across the metal latch. It opened with a soft snap.

Inside, more letters sat in a neat stack, tied together with an aged silk ribbon, frayed at the edges. They were brittle but preserved, like someone wanted them to last just long enough.

She picked one up.The wax seal was intact, the same swirling “L.”

Clara hesitated.Then opened it.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

Dear Wanderer,

You’ve come back.

I hoped you would. I feared you wouldn’t.

Not many hear the call, and fewer still answer. You are not the first to find this place. Not the first to search for truth. But be warned, truth doesn’t care for comfort. It comes with teeth.

There is a key hidden in this house.

It opens more than just doors.

If you find it...Remember, some things stay buried for a reason.

— L.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

Clara stared at the page.Her hands were trembling slightly.

A key?

She glanced around the attic instinctively, as if something might reveal itself in the shadows. But all she could hear was the wind pressing against the old wooden panels of the house, and the thud of her heart in her ears.

What did the writer mean by “you are not the first”?

And why did it feel like the letter wasn’t written in the past, but for her, right now?

She folded the letter carefully and stood.

Somewhere in this house, a key waited. One that opened more than just a door.

Whatever she had stepped into, it was far bigger than she imagined.

_____________________________________________________________________

(12)

Clara barely slept that night.

Her dreams were fragmented, filled with images she couldn’t place, firelight flickering across old wood, clocks ticking backward, and a shadow watching her from the corner of her own attic. When she finally woke, the letter still sat on her nightstand, the words etched into her thoughts like a whisper she couldn’t silence.

She got dressed quickly, pulling on a hoodie and jeans, her hair still messy from sleep. The house was quiet.Only the sound of birds outside and the faint ticking of an old wall clock downstairs.She started in the attic.

Nothing looked different. But now, every object seemed suspicious. Every drawer, every floorboard, every shelf suddenly felt like it might be holding something more.

Clara crouched near the old bookshelf pressed into the corner. She pulled out books at random, old classics, water damaged journals, even a dusty Bible. Nothing.

She turned to the far wall. An old painting hung there, one she hadn’t paid attention to before. It was dull and faded: a portrait of a house. Her house, she realized.But it was older. More worn. Ivy covered the sides, and there was something dark in the windows. She stepped closer

The frame was crooked.Curious, she reached out and lifted it from the hook.

Behind it, the wall was different, rougher wood. There was a small square outline in the planks. Clara leaned in and ran her fingers along the edges.

It clicked.A hidden compartment.

Her pulse quickened as she pried it open. Dust spilled out first, then, nestled deep within, something metal glinted in the morning light.

A key.It was old, iron, and heavier than she expected. Worn with age, but engraved delicately with the same looping L.

The same mark. Again.She stared at it, breath caught in her throat.Was this what the letter meant?She turned it over in her hand, wondering aloud, “What do you open?”

And as if in answer, somewhere below, faint but clear, a door creaked open

_____________________________________________________________________

(13)

Clara froze.

That sound hadn’t come from her imagination. It echoed from somewhere beneath her, not the attic, but the floors below.

She clutched the key tightly, as if it were a weapon rather than a question, and backed away from the wall. Each step felt like a whisper in the dark. The house, so quiet before, suddenly felt as though it were listening.

She descended the attic stairs slowly, her fingers grazing the banister. Down the hallway. Past the kitchen. Her eyes scanned every shadow, every frame, every door that was just slightly ajar.

Then she heard it again, a low creak, and a dull metallic clink, like something being closed. It came from behind the study door.

Clara pushed it open.

The study was just as she’d left it: a desk, a cracked leather armchair, dusty books lining the shelves. But there was something new.

In the corner, where an old coat rack stood, there was now a narrow wooden door.She could’ve sworn it wasn’t there before.Her heart thudded in her chest.

Clara stepped closer. The wood of the door didn’t match the rest of the house. It was darker, older... as if it had been transplanted from another time entirely.

She reached for the key, holding it up to the iron lock.It fit.And turned.

The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into darkness.

No light. No sounds. Just cold air rising up like breath from something asleep.Clara stood at the threshold.Every instinct told her to stop.But curiosity was louder.

She grabbed a flashlight from the desk drawer, she'd found it there earlier, during the move, and stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a hollow thunk.

Down and down she went, the steps groaning under her weight. The smell of earth and stone grew stronger with each turn. At the bottom, she emerged into a hidden cellar, but this was no ordinary storage space.

It looked like a room forgotten by time, candleholders along the stone walls, a table with papers and trinkets scattered across it...and in the center, a mirror.

Not cracked. Not dusty.Perfectly polished.Too perfect.

She stepped forward and saw her reflection.Only her reflection wasn’t moving.It was smiling.And Clara wasn’t.

_____________________________________________________________________

(14)

Clara stared at the mirror.Her breath caught. Her arms were frozen at her sides, but in the glass, her reflection tilted its head.Just slightly. Almost playfully.

“Nope,” Clara whispered, stepping back.

The reflection didn’t follow.It remained still,smiling.

She backed into the table behind her, rattling some of the trinkets, a rusted compass, a candlestick, folded scraps of parchment that looked centuries old. The moment she touched the table, the mirror changed again.

Her reflection dropped the smile.And spoke.Clara’s voice came from the mirror, but her lips hadn’t moved.

“You’ve opened the door. Now we remember you.”

Clara blinked. “What the hell!”

The mirror fogged over, as if exhaling. The figure inside became a silhouette, still in her shape, but not her. It raised one finger and pointed to the left side of the room.

Clara’s flashlight flickered and dimmed.She turned, slowly.

On the stone wall, half-hidden by old papers and cobwebs, was a small wooden plaque nailed to the stone. It had a strange symbol carved into it, a circle intersected by a line, surrounded by looping patterns like vines or ink trails. And beside it,another letter.Not sealed.Not aged.Fresh.

With her name written on it.Not To the Wanderer, not Reader, just,Clara.

She reached out with a shaky hand and pulled it free.Unfolded it.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

Clara,

You see now. Not everything here obeys time.This place remembers those who linger too long in its questions.

Be careful what you follow. Not every door opens back into the world you left.We are watching.

— L.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

Her hands trembled. The cold in the room felt thicker, like it was pressing into her skin. She turned back toward the mirror.But the reflection was gone.Only the room stared back now.

And Clara, wasn’t sure she’d come back up the same person.

_____________________________________________________________________

(15)

Sarah hadn’t heard from Clara since yesterday afternoon.Not even a simple “I made it home” text.

At first, she thought nothing of it. Clara had always been a bit of a loner, someone who needed time to process new things, new homes, new feelings. But by mid morning, a quiet itch of worry had begun to crawl up her spine.

She made her way to the edge of town, where the trees hung low and the old colonial homes sat like secrets pressed into wood and stone. Clara’s place looked the same from the outside, but something felt off. The air around it was too still.

Sarah knocked once. Twice.No answer.

“Clara?” she called through the door. “It’s me. You alright?”

She listened.Still nothing.The doorknob turned with a creak, unlocked.

Sarah stepped inside.

The living room was dim, though daylight filtered through the curtains. A half filled mug sat on the table, long gone cold. Clara’s hoodie was draped over a chair. Everything looked lived in, but abandoned.

“Clara?”Her voice echoed slightly in the hallway.

She walked slowly toward the study. The door was open. Inside, that strange wooden door Clara had mentioned, the one that hadn’t been there before, stood ajar.

Something icy touched Sarah’s neck. A breeze?

No, it felt like a warning.“Clara,” she said again, quieter now, “if this is a prank, it’s not funny.”

She hesitated at the top of the stairs leading downward. Cold air seeped up from below like breath from a stone lung.

Then she heard a faint sound.Whispers.And the distinct, unmistakable creak of someone moving.Downstairs.

Sarah’s fingers tightened on the doorknob, and despite every instinct screaming to run, she stepped into the dark.

_____________________________________________________________________

(16)

The cellar was silent when Sarah stepped onto the stone floor.

Her breath fogged in the air. The cold down here was unnatural, it clung to her skin like damp cloth. Her flashlight’s narrow beam swept across old furniture, cobweb-laced crates, and the glint of something metallic in the far corner.

Then she heard it. A soft, familiar voice, her name, like a sigh.

“Sarah?”

She turned fast. “Clara?”

From behind a thick wooden beam, Clara stepped into view. Her face pale, her eyes wide, but calm, too calm.

Sarah rushed to her. “God, are you okay? I’ve been calling, texting, what is this place?”

Clara looked around slowly. “I don’t know. There’s something down here. I found a mirror. A letter. Things that shouldn’t exist anymore.”

Sarah took her by the arm. “You’re freezing. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

But Clara didn’t move right away. She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the far end of the room where the mirror had been, only now, it was gone.Or maybe hidden again.

“Did you hear them?” Clara asked softly.

Sarah’s eyebrows knit. “Hear what?”

Clara met her gaze. “The voices. I think they know who I am. And I don’t think I was meant to find that key.”Sarah hesitated, a chill running through her.

“Clara, what are you talking about? What voices?”

Clara shook her head, like she was trying to clear a fog from her thoughts. “I don’t know. But this place is more than just old. It remembers things. It hides them, and shows them to people like me.”

“Like you?”

Clara looked at her. There was something new in her eyes, not fear. Not madness. Just awareness.

“I think I’ve been here before,” she whispered.

Sarah’s heart skipped. “Clara, you moved here last week”

“No,” Clara said. “I mean before.”

They stared at each other in the dim light.

Then,click.A sound from behind them.They turned.At the top of the staircase, the cellar door slowly creaked shut.And locked.

_____________________________________________________________________

(17)

Sarah ran up the steps first, pushing hard on the door. It didn’t budge. Not even a rattle.

“It’s locked,” she said, jiggling the knob. “From the outside.”

Clara came up behind her, holding the iron key she had found earlier. She tried it in the lock, nothing. It didn’t even fit this one.

“Great,” Sarah muttered, her voice shaky. “Your antique mystery key isn’t much help now.”

Clara ignored the jab. She was scanning the walls again, the way they seemed to shift ever so slightly when she wasn’t looking. The air felt thicker now. Heavier.

“Let’s look for another way out,” she said, already heading back down.

The two of them searched every inch of the cellar, behind crates, beneath a collapsed shelf, even behind a dusty curtain that hid nothing but a solid stone wall.

Then they spotted a narrow tunnel tucked behind an old bookcase. Low ceiling. Dirt floor. It looked freshly disturbed, as if someone or something,had used it recently.Clara flicked her flashlight inside.

"Better than waiting to rot down here,” she said, ducking in.

Sarah followed, crawling after her. The passage twisted and dipped. It felt like moving through the veins of the house itself.Finally, they saw light.An old wooden door.Clara pressed her ear against it. Nothing.She turned the handle, and the door opened with a soft creak.And they stepped into

The cellar.Again.Same shelves. Same crates. Same table. Same cold air.

Sarah stopped dead. “no,no,no,no.”

Clara’s breath caught. “This isn’t possible”

They turned back.The tunnel?Gone.

Only a solid stone wall behind them.

Sarah whirled around. “Okay. We’re hallucinating. Maybe there’s mold, or gas, or something”

“I don’t think it’s that,” Clara said quietly. “I think it’s this place. It doesn’t want us to leave.”

Sarah backed against the wall, her voice shaking now. “That’s insane.”

Clara looked at the old mirror frame still hanging on the wall, now cracked, no reflection inside.

Then she noticed something new.Another letter.Folded neatly on the stone table. Waiting.

_____________________________________________________________________

(18)

Clara’s eyes locked on the letter lying innocently on the stone table.Neat. Crisp.Out of place.She took a step toward it, heart thudding like a drumbeat echoing off the cellar walls.

“Wait,” Sarah said behind her. “We don’t know what happens when you touch it.”

“I have to,” Clara whispered. “It’s the only thing that changes.”

She reached out and the flame in the lone candle snapped out.In the split second that followed, everything dropped into pitch black.Then,Light.

They were standing at the foot of the cellar stairs again.Same crates. Same cold.Same letter.Clara blinked, stumbling back. “No. No, we just...”

Sarah ran to the steps, bolted up them two at a time. She threw her shoulder into the door.Still locked.She turned, wild eyed. “Clara, we just did this!”

Clara was already walking to the table again. The letter was still there, untouched.

Everything was identical, down to the crack in the candleholder and the faint print of her own shoe on the dust covered floor.Sarah grabbed her wrist. “It’s a trap. That thing is doing something to us.”

But Clara couldn’t stop. The letter felt like a thread tugging at the edge of her thoughts, something ancient and alive pulling her toward it.She touched it.The room shook.Not violently, like a ripple through time, not space.

Everything blurred for a heartbeat, and when it cleared,They were in the middle of the cellar.Again.

Sarah let out a strangled gasp. “What is happening?!”

The stone around them pulsed faintly, like it was breathing.A low hum filled the air, not sound, but feeling.And then came the voice.Not from the walls. Not from the air.From behind them.

“You’ve gone and triggered the worst of it,” a man said calmly.

They spun around.There he was.Half in shadow. Tall. Unmoving. A silhouette wearing a coat from another century.

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he said, stepping forward into the faint glow of the candlelight.

His face was pale and sharp. Hair dark and tousled, eyes the color of storm washed stone.He offered a shallow nod.

“My name is Ace,” he said. “Ace Wintherbourne.”

Clara stared. “You, how did you get in?”

“I didn’t,” he replied coolly. “You let me out.”

_____________________________________________________________________

(19)

Clara tightened her grip on Sarah’s arm as the man stepped into full view.

His coat was long and dusted with cobwebs, as if it hadn’t been worn in a decade. His eyes, stormy gray, watched them with quiet intensity, but there was no hostility. Only fatigue. Like he’d been waiting for this moment far too long.

“You said your name is... Ace?” Clara asked, unsure whether to believe he was even real.

“Ace Wintherbourne,” he repeated gently, like the words still tasted strange in his mouth. “It’s been a while since anyone’s said it out loud.”

Sarah eyed him. “How did you get down here? There’s no way in. No way out.”

Ace glanced toward the sealed door. “I stopped trying to figure that out a long time ago.”

Clara’s heart skipped. “You’re stuck here?”

He nodded slowly. “Trapped. Like you. I don’t remember how it began, not exactly. Only that I found the first letter and then, time started bending.”

Sarah folded her arms. “You’re not making sense. What year do you think it is?”

Ace looked at her, his brows drawing together.

He hesitated,“I... I don’t know.”

Clara’s breath hitched. “You don’t know what year it is?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “I lost track. Years...maybe decades. Time loops in here. I’ve lived the same days over and over. Or maybe different days that look the same. The house, this place, it feeds off something.Memory, maybe emotion.”

He paused, as if listening to the walls themselves.

“I’ve tried to escape,” he said. “I’ve screamed until my voice gave out. I’ve torn down walls. Burned letters. Nothing worked.”

Clara felt a chill in her spine. “So why are we here now?”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” Ace said, eyes meeting hers. “You’re the first people I’ve seen in what feels like forever. And something changed the moment you opened that chest.”

Sarah whispered, “You think it’s the letters?”

Ace gave a solemn nod. “They’re the key to the curse. But they’re also the lock.”

Clara swallowed hard, her gaze drifting toward the table where the letter still lay, untouched once again.

Ace followed her eyes. “You’re not just reading someone else’s past, Clara. You’re becoming part of it.”

_____________________________________________________________________

(20)

The air was tense. Heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Clara stepped forward, gaze locked on the second letter resting on the table. It hadn't been there before, not until the loop reset again. The parchment looked older than the first, its edges yellowed and curling like autumn leaves.

“Are you sure you want to read it?” Sarah asked softly, her voice fragile in the silence.

“No,” Clara said honestly. “But I have to.”

Ace stood back, quiet, watching her with something like hope or maybe regret.

Clara picked it up carefully.

The seal broke with a quiet crack.

She unfolded the letter. The handwriting was the same as the first, elegant, slanted, written in black ink that bled faintly into the paper.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

February 12th, 1874

They say if you love something, let it go.

But what if the thing you love is already vanishing before your eyes?

Today, I saw her in the garden again. The same one she always vanished into. She never speaks. Only smiles, sad and serene, as if she knows I’m not meant to follow.

I keep dreaming of fire. Not flames, but the heat of loss. Every time I open my eyes, I expect the house to be gone to wake in ashes. But it’s still here. It never leaves me.

Neither does she.The moment I stop searching will be the moment I truly lose her.I will not stop. I cannot.

— A.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━✧━━━

Clara read it twice before lowering the paper, hands trembling.

“It’s like... like someone was trying to hold onto someone they already lost,” she said.

Sarah frowned. “And the garden? Who’s ‘she’?”

Ace stepped closer now, his gaze distant. “I remember the garden. It’s on the west side of the house. Overgrown now, lost to vines and bramble. But it used to be beautiful.”

Clara turned to him. “Do you think the person who wrote this… is still here?”

“I don’t know,” Ace said, jaw tense. “But if they are so is whatever they were trying to save.”

Sarah’s face paled. “You think this house is haunted?”

Ace looked at her solemnly. “Not haunted. Remembered.”

Clara glanced down at the letter again.

And for the briefest moment, the scent of roses touched the air, even though no flowers had grown in that garden for over a century.

_____________________________________________________________________

(21)

The scent of roses still lingered in the air, faint and haunting, even after the letter fell silent in Clara’s hands.

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Ace stepped toward the far wall of the cellar and pulled aside a dusty curtain Clara hadn’t noticed before. Behind it barely visible was a narrow door, warped with age and spotted with mold.

“That leads to the garden,” he said quietly.

Sarah raised a brow. “Wait, there’s a garden attached to the cellar?”

Ace gave a dry smile. “This house has doors in places that don’t make sense anymore. Come.”

They stepped out into a narrow corridor, musty and lined with old brick. After a short walk, Ace pushed open a creaking wooden door and sunlight spilled in like gold through fog.The garden was wild.

Twisting vines covered rusted iron benches. Statues worn down by wind stood crooked beneath tangled trees. Weeds had swallowed paths that once curved with purpose. Yet despite the ruin, there was a stillness to it. Sacred. Unbothered by time.

Clara stepped forward, brushing past a flowering bush that shouldn’t have been blooming this season.

“This is where she came,” Clara murmured. “The woman in the letter. ‘She never speaks, only smiles...”

Sarah knelt near a cracked stone fountain, now dry. “So who’s A?”

Clara looked at the letter again. Then she pulled the first one from her coat pocket, the one she had read the night before, the one signed with an L.

She compared the two.

The handwriting was similar. Not identical. But similar.

“A and L,” she whispered. “Two people writing letters, maybe to each other. Or about each other.”

Ace stood behind her, arms crossed. “Maybe they were lovers.”

“Or maybe one of them never knew they were being watched,” Clara said, still staring at the paper. “There’s so much we don’t know yet.”

She took another step deeper into the garden, something drawing her forward.

Then she stopped.

At the base of a tree, half-buried in ivy, was a small stone bench.

On it sat a third letter.

Sarah gasped softly. “No way...”

Clara picked it up, but unlike the others, this one was sealed with a wax emblem shaped like a rose.

She held it to her chest, breath trembling.

“Should I open it?”

Ace looked uneasy. “If it’s from one of them, you might not be reading a letter this time. You might be reliving a memory.”

Clara met his eyes. “Then I’ll be careful.”

But deep down, something told her, there was no such thing anymore.