Chapter 7

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Chapter 7: Threading Shadows

There are silences that speak louder than screams.

This house was full of them.

Not the quiet of peace, but the kind that hums beneath the skin. A silence that watches. Waits. Breathes.

The walls knew things I didn’t. And lately, they seemed eager to share.

I began to feel it during breakfast. The way Christopher’s hand lingered over his cup, not drinking. The way his gaze wandered when I asked about Aurelia’s painting, as if the name alone cut something open in him.

“Did she like to paint?” I asked, tracing the corner of the canvas with my finger.

“She liked to disappear,” he replied, not looking at me.

A beat passed between us, the kind you don’t know what to do with. So I let it sit there, heavy and hot.

“She was troubled,” he added after a moment. “Too sensitive for a house like this. Or maybe this house made her that way.”

I wanted to ask more, but the air between us was too thick, too charged with something I didn’t yet understand.

Instead, I smiled — tight, rehearsed. “Sounds familiar.”

He looked at me then, a flicker of worry in his expression, but it vanished before I could name it.

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That afternoon, I returned to the East Wing. The part of the house no one spoke about unless they had to. The part they cleaned, but never lived in. I told myself I was exploring. That I was curious.

But the truth was, I was pulled there. As if Aurelia herself were calling me.

The floors creaked like bones under my feet. Dust clung to the corners, heavy with time. I reached for a doorknob — cold, brass, and stiff — and pushed it open.

Inside, a bedroom sat untouched. Airless. Draped in pale lace and old perfume. The scent was faint, but it curled into my lungs like a memory I didn’t own.

On the vanity sat a silver comb, a half-burnt candle, and a small, leather-bound book.

I hesitated.

Then opened it.

The handwriting was delicate. Precise. A woman who measured her words — or someone who feared what might happen if she didn’t.

“They listen through the walls. I don’t know who anymore — only that someone hears everything. I dreamed I drowned in the tub again. Woke up gasping. I don’t know if it was a dream.”

I flipped the page. My heart ticked louder in my chest.

“He warned me not to speak. But how can I keep it inside? I see it in his eyes now — the fear. The regret. Or maybe it’s guilt. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

I closed the journal. I couldn’t breathe.

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Later, I sat with Christopher in the garden. The overgrown vines tangled above us like green veins, and the bench groaned beneath our weight.

“I found her room,” I said.

He didn’t react at first. Then: “You shouldn’t be there.”

“Why? Because it’s dangerous? Or because there are answers?”

He turned his head, jaw tight. “Because I don’t want to lose you too.”

Something in his voice cracked, and for the first time, I saw it — the fracture. The boy under the man. The wound he never stitched shut.

“I’m not her,” I said.

“I know. But you ask the same questions she did. You look at me the same way she did — like I’m hiding something.”

“Are you?”

The wind rustled the ivy behind us.

He didn’t answer.

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That night, sleep didn’t come. I watched the ceiling for hours, the cracks forming unfamiliar constellations above me.

And then — just past two — I heard it.

A whisper. My name.

“Isla.”

I sat up, breath held. Nothing. Then again, softer.

“Isla…”

I crept out of bed, heart thudding like footsteps. I followed the sound down the hall. The shadows seemed to shift as I moved — doors that hadn’t been open were now ajar, the cold floor stealing warmth from my soles.

I stopped outside Aurelia’s old room.

The door was wide open.

No one inside.

Only the sound of dripping water.

The bathtub.

Running.

I approached, every nerve screaming. The handle was wet. The air, thick with steam and something else — perfume. Lilac and musk and memory.

The tub was full. Clear water. No sign of who had turned it on.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t.

Instead, I walked backward. Slowly. Closed the door. Locked it.

And cried.

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Morning came, brittle and sharp. I found a note on my pillow.

No name. No punctuation.

leave before it’s too late

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