Eliza traced the swirling grain of the attic floorboards, dust motes dancing in the lone shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom. Chapter 9. She'd found it tucked inside her grandmother's old diary, a handwritten manuscript tied with faded ribbon. The title, scrawled in a familiar hand, sent a shiver down her spine. It was her own. Or, rather, her grandmother's version of her.
The attic was a repository of forgotten lives, smelling of mothballs and regret. Eliza usually avoided it. But the diary's discovery had drawn her in, beckoning her to confront the ghost of a past she barely remembered.
She untied the ribbon, its fragile fibers crumbling at her touch, and began to read.
"My dear Eliza, my little songbird, today you spoke for the first time. A single, clear 'Mama' that filled this house with joy. Your father wept. I held you close, memorizing the sound of your voice. I want to remember it always, even when it changes, even when you're shouting teenage rebellions at me."
Eliza blinked, surprised by the raw emotion in the writing. She knew her grandmother had loved her, but she'd always seemed reserved, a woman of quiet strength. This was a different side, a vulnerable glimpse into a mother's heart.
She continued reading. The chapter chronicled Eliza's first words, her first steps, her first tantrums. Each entry meticulously detailed the nuances of her voice, from the babbling coos of infancy to the hesitant pronunciation of early vocabulary.
"Sometimes, when you're asleep, I lean close and listen to you breathe. The faintest whisper of air, a promise of the words to come. I pray your voice carries you far, Eliza. That it speaks truth and kindness, that it sings your own song."
Eliza's throat tightened. Her grandmother's words were like a forgotten melody, resonating with a part of her she thought had been lost. For years, her own voice had felt muted, constrained by anxiety and self-doubt. She'd avoided public speaking, shied away from voicing her opinions. She'd let the melody within her fall silent.He closed the book, clutching it tightly to his chest. "Eleanor, I think whoever is doing this knows more about my family history than I do. They're using Amelia's song to… to what? Taunt us?"
The air in the library suddenly felt thick and oppressive, charged with a sense of dread. The shadows seemed to deepen, the faces of the portraits on the walls watching them with silent, knowing eyes.
Eleanor reached out, taking Julian's hand again. "We'll find out, Julian," she said, her voice stronger now, fueled by a newfound resolve. "We'll find out who's doing this, and we'll make them stop. Together."
But as she gazed into his troubled eyes, she couldn't shake the feeling that they had only just scratched the surface of a far more terrifying truth, a truth buried deep within the history of the Aethelred estate, waiting to be unearthed. The echoes of Amelia's song, once meant to soothe, now reverberated with a chilling promise of darkness to come.