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The attic always unsettled Emma. Even as a child, she had avoided its creaking stairs, convinced shadows lingered longer up there than anywhere else in the house. Tonight, though, curiosity won over unease.

A storm rattled the old windows below, and the air in the attic carried the dry tang of dust and age. She waved her flashlight in slow arcs, its beam catching cobwebs, trunks, and the skeletal remains of forgotten furniture.

She wasn’t searching for anything in particular. Maybe a distraction. Maybe a piece of her mother she hadn’t yet buried.

Her foot nudged a shoebox, sending a puff of dust swirling into the stale air. She crouched, pulling the box closer. Inside, beneath stacks of birthday cards and faded photographs, was a bundle wrapped in a ribbon so pale it had nearly lost its color.

Emma froze.

The ribbon, the neat fold of paper, the faint scent of cedar—it was all familiar. Hands trembling, she lifted the letters out.

She didn’t have to open the first envelope to recognize the handwriting. The slant of the letters, the ink pressed heavy in places, light in others. Daniel Hayes.

Her heart gave a painful twist.

Daniel. The boy who had kissed her on the back porch under July fireworks. The boy who whispered forever against her hair. The boy who, without a word, without a reason, vanished the next morning and never came back.

For ten years she had lived with the silence he left behind. She had convinced herself he didn’t love her enough. That he was selfish, careless, incapable of staying. The wound had scarred over—but it had never healed.

Emma’s fingers fumbled as she opened the first letter.

Emma,

If you’re reading this, it means things didn’t go the way I hoped. I wanted to stay, more than you’ll ever know. But there are things I can’t explain—not yet. Trust me when I say I left to protect you. One day, you’ll understand.

Her lips parted, but no breath came. Protect her? From what?

Her eyes lingered on the last line, her breath uneven.

Protect you.

The words pressed against old scars she thought had hardened long ago. All those years she had carried the weight of his absence like a stone in her chest—telling herself she hadn’t been enough, that she wasn’t worth staying for.

What if she had been wrong?

Her throat ached. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to rip the paper to shreds. How dare he say he left for her sake, after shattering her world without a single word? How dare he pretend it had been noble, when all she had known was the silence of unanswered questions?

Yet, against her will, something fragile and foolish fluttered inside her. A spark of the girl she had once been—the one who believed in fireworks on the porch and promises whispered in the dark.

She pressed her palm to her chest, trying to steady herself, but her heart raced on, wild and unruly.

If Daniel had loved her enough to protect her, why hadn’t he trusted her enough to tell her the truth?

She read on, faster now, desperate for more, but the words ended abruptly. The lower half of the page was smudged—at first she thought it was water damage, but as her beam steadied, her stomach lurched. The reddish-brown stain had soaked deep into the paper fibers.

Blood.

The attic seemed to shrink around her.

The letter slipped in her grip. She snatched it back, pulse racing. Memories she had worked hard to bury clawed their way up—the unanswered phone calls, the hushed pity in neighbors’ voices, the way her mother never spoke his name again.

Her flashlight flickered once, twice.

And then the floorboards groaned behind her.

Emma spun, heart hammering against her ribs.

A small figure stood in the shadows near the stairwell. Thin shoulders, gray hair pulled into a neat bun.

“Emma?”

Mrs. Calloway.

The neighbor had lived next door for as long as Emma could remember. Sweet enough, though strange—she had the habit of appearing at odd hours, sometimes with a pie, sometimes just with questions Emma hadn’t asked for answers to.

Emma pressed the letter to her chest, her throat dry. “You scared me.”

Mrs. Calloway’s gaze dropped to the bundle of letters in Emma’s hand. Her expression didn’t change, not exactly—but something flickered across her eyes. Not surprise. Not curiosity. Something closer to dread.

For a heartbeat, Emma thought she saw fear.

But then the woman smiled, soft and measured.

“Oh… you found them.”