•~•Isabella•~•

The car rolled to a slow stop in front of the Gray home. I sat in the passenger seat, staring at the house that had once been my second home. Now, it felt like a relic of the past—a place where echoes of laughter and warmth had long faded. Its presence was both familiar and distant.

Countless summers had been spent here, running through its vast hallways, hiding in its grand library, and falling asleep to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock. The walls had held love, stories, and life. But today, the house felt empty. A shell of what it once was.

Beside me, Clara tapped the steering wheel, glancing at me with quiet concern. “You sure you want to do this?”

I swallowed, gripping the car door handle. “Yeah.”

She hesitated before nodding. “I’ll wait here. But if you need me—”

“I know , if I need you ,I can call you.”

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the car. The crisp air carried the faint scent of damp earth and old wood, the same scent that had always clung to this place. But now, it felt heavier, like the past had seeped into the very foundation of the house, waiting for me to return.

The key trembled slightly in my grip as I unlocked the door. It groaned open, revealing the dimly lit hallway inside. The scent of wood and faint traces of Eleanor Gray’s( my grandmother) perfume wrapped around me like a familiar embrace, yet it was different now—more like a lingering ghost than a presence.

It had been two weeks since she passed away. Two weeks since the last thread holding my childhood together had snapped. And now, it was up to me to sort through her belongings—to decide what to keep and what to let go.

Stepping inside, I took slow, careful steps, as if walking too fast might disturb the house’s slumber. Everything remained untouched. The antique furniture stood exactly where it always had, the shelves lined with old books, each one carrying the scent of history. The bookshelves, neat and orderly, were a reflection of my grandmother’s meticulous nature. She had always believed in keeping things in their place, perhaps because the past had a habit of slipping away too easily.

She had been a historian, obsessed with the past. And maybe, in some ways, I had inherited that same obsession. But while she studied history through books and records, this house made it feel personal—like the past wasn’t just something to be learned but something that lingered, waiting to be uncovered.

My fingers trailed over the spines of the books, pausing when I recognized one— A Tale of Two Cities. My grandmother’s favorite book. I pulled it from the shelf, the worn leather cover cool against my fingertips. As I opened it, a small note slipped free, fluttering to the floor.

I bent down, picking it up carefully. The handwriting was elegant, slightly faded but still clear.

"To my dearest Eleanor,

May you always find light in the darkest of times.

With love, Richard."

My grandfather.

A sharp breath caught in my throat as I pressed the note against my chest. I had never met my grandfather, but I had heard the stories. He had been the love of Grandma's life, taken too soon. Just like my parents. Just like my brother.

A tear slipped down my cheek before I even realized I was crying. I sank onto the couch, hugging the book tightly. How many times had my grandmother sat here, holding onto pieces of the past just as I was now?

Placing the book back on the shelf with careful reverence, I let my gaze drift across the room. The dining table where my parents and I had once sat for tea stood eerily still, untouched by time. The fireplace sat cold and unused. Everything felt frozen in the past, unwilling to move forward without the people who had once given this house its warmth.

Taking a deep breath, I made my way upstairs. Reaching the first floor, I hesitated before stepping into my childhood bedroom. The dusty scent of old books filled my lungs. The bed remained the same—covered in a faded floral quilt. The shelves lined with books I had once adored, now collecting dust.

As I traced my fingers over the spines, a memory surfaced, pulling me under like a wave.

I was eight again.

Laughter echoed through the halls as I ran up the stairs, my older brother close behind.

"You’re too slow!" I had teased, sticking my tongue out.

"Just wait till I catch you, Issa!" he had shouted, frustration laced in his voice, but his grin betraying him.

I could almost hear our mother’s voice—soft yet firm—calling out from the living room. “Alright, you two, enough running inside the house.”

Our father had only chuckled, ruffling my hair. “Let them be, Lisa. They’re just kids.”

And then—

The accident.

The sharp sound of sirens. The flashing lights. The cold hospital room. The hollow silence that followed.

The weight of it all crashed down on me, forcing the air from my lungs. My knees buckled, and I clutched the bedpost, struggling to breathe. The house, once filled with love, now felt suffocating. The walls held too much. Too many memories. Too much loss.

Tears burned my eyes as I turned away, stumbling toward the hallway.

A creak from behind made me freeze. I turned to find Clara standing in the doorway, her brows drawn together in worry.

“Issa…” Her voice was soft, careful.

I wiped at my tears, letting out a shaky breath. “I thought I was ready for this,” I whispered. “But being here… it’s too much.”

“You don’t have to do this all in one day, you know.”

“I know.” I exhaled. “But if I don’t, I don’t think I ever will.”

She gave me a long look before sighing. “Alright. But don’t push yourself too hard.” Her eyes flickered around the room. “This place is creepy as hell.”

A weak chuckle escaped my lips. “It wasn’t always like this.”

With newfound determination, I straightened my shoulders. “Don’t worry about me,” I told Clara before making my way toward my grandmother’s room.

The door was slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath, I pushed it open fully.

Everything was untouched—just as grandma had left it. The scent of her perfume still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint mustiness of old books and fabric.

My eyes swept over the room. The bookshelves filled with neatly arranged novels. The chair near the window, where grandma used to sit and read. The writing desk, scattered with papers and ink bottles, as if she had only just stepped away.

Then, my gaze landed on a small leather-bound journal sitting atop a pile of books on the wooden table. My stomach twisted. I knew this journal. I had seen it once before, years ago—only for grandma to snatch it away, warning me never to touch it.

But now, grandma was gone.

Heart pounding, I reached for the journal, running my fingers over its worn cover. An intricate symbol was embossed on the front—one I didn’t recognize.

Taking a deep breath, I flipped it open.

The handwriting was elegant, the ink faded but still legible.

"To the one who finds this, tread carefully. The past holds more than memories—it holds secrets that can shatter the present."

A shiver ran down my spine. I turned the page, and my breath hitched.

There, written in flowing script, was my name.

"Isabella Gray, you’ve come at last. The question is, will you stay?"

My breath hitched.

It's my name—written in a journal that looked centuries old.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. The ink, though slightly faded, was unmistakable. The handwriting felt deliberate, like a message meant only for her. But how? Grandma had never spoken about this journal, and yet… it had been here all along, waiting.

My fingers trembled as I turned the next page, and there was only two words were written,

Adrian Wilson.

The name sent an unfamiliar chill through my. The letters curved elegantly across the page, but there was something unsettling about it. The weight of it pressed into my chest, like l was supposed to remember, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t place it.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the room. The attic window flung open with a loud crash, rattling the glass panes. The journal’s pages flipped wildly, as if something unseen was trying to turn them.

My heart pounded. Without thinking, I slammed the book shut.

Silence followed.

My pulse thundered in my ears. I clutched the journal against my chest, struggling to steady my breath. The wind had settled. The window now hung open, the curtain swaying slightly, as if nothing had happened.

I squeezed my eyes shut. It’s just an old book. It means nothing. It has to mean nothing.

For a few moments, I just sat there, gripping the leather cover tightly. The words burned into my mind—my name, and that unfamiliar one. What did it mean? Why was it here? And why had grandma hidden it all these years?

I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus. The journal wasn’t going anywhere. I could look at it later—when I wasn’t shaking.

Carefully, l slipped it under a pile of papers on the desk, hiding it from sight. Out of sight, out of mind.

Or at least, l could pretend.

Distraction

Needing something—anything—to steady myself, I turned my attention to the rest of the room.

My grandma’s presence lingered in every detail. The neatly arranged books, the half-melted candle on the nightstand, the silver brush still holding strands of grandma’s silver hair. Everything was untouched, as if time had frozen the moment she had passed.

I walked towards the wardrobe, trailing my fingers over the polished wood. Inside, grandma’s neatly folded scarves and coats still carried her faint perfume—lavender and something old, like aged paper.

Then, on the bedside table, l noticed a small wooden box.

Curious, I lifted the lid.

Inside, there were old letters—yellowed with age, their edges frayed. Letters between my grandparents, between grandma and grandpa. My breath caught as I carefully picked one up. The ink had faded, but the words remained.

"My dearest Eleanor,"

"I have no words to tell you how much I miss you. These days away feel empty, as if the world itself is dull without you in it. I hope you are keeping warm, and that the house does not feel too lonely without me."

I exhaled sharply, pressing the letter to my chest. Love letters.

For a moment, the weight in my heart softened. Even in loss, there had been love. So much love.

A soft knock on the door startled me.

“Issa?”

I turned to see Clara standing in the doorway, her expression laced with concern.

Memories in Photographs

Clara stepped inside, glancing around. “You okay?”

I quickly wiped at my eyes, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. Just… remembering.”

Clara didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she glanced around the dimly lit room. “This place still creeps me out.”

A weak chuckle escaped from me. “It wasn’t always like this.”

Clara walked to the writing desk, her eyes scanning over the papers. “You’ve been going through her things?”

I hesitated before nodding. “Trying to.”

Clara hummed in understanding, then her gaze landed on something else. “Hey—what’s this?”

Before I could panic, I realized Clara wasn’t looking at the journal. Instead, she had pulled out an old leather-bound album from a nearby shelf.

A photo album.

“Oh,” my breathed out, relief washing over me. I took it from Clara, running my fingers over the cover.

“I remember this,” Clara said, sitting down beside me. “We used to flip through it every summer, remember?”

A real smile touched my lips. “Yeah.”

We opened the album together.

The first few pages held black-and-white photographs—grandma and grandpa on their wedding day, young and in love. Then came the pictures of my parents, holding me as a baby.

My throat tightened.

And then, further in we appear , me and Clara .

There we were—two little girls with scraped knees, grinning at the camera. A picture of us playing in the garden, another one of is curled up by the fireplace, lost in books.

Clara chuckled. “God, we were a mess.”

“You were a mess,” I corrected, nudging her playfully.

Clara gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me? I was the responsible one!”

“You got us locked in the library once.”

“That was one time.”

I let out a real laugh, the tension in my chest easing. The weight of the journal, the unanswered questions—just for a moment, we didn’t feel so heavy.

We flipped through more pages, reminiscing.

For the first time since arriving, the house didn’t feel so empty.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the house grew colder. Shadows stretched across the walls, and the old wooden floors creaked under their weight.

Clara glanced at the time and groaned. “It’s getting late.”

I glanced toward the window. The thought of leaving—of stepping out of this house and pretending I hadn’t just uncovered something impossible—felt wrong.

“Stay,” I said before she could second-guess it.

Clara raised a brow. “Here?”

“Yeah.” I exhaled. “We used to do it all the time when we were kids.”

Clara hesitated before sighing. “Fine. But if I wake up to a ghost, I’m blaming you.”

I smirked. “Fair.”

As the night settled in, we pulled out extra blankets and Clara set up in the Grandma's room. The air still smelled of old wood and grandma’s perfume.

But for the first time since arriving, I didn’t feel so alone.

Still, as I lay in the quiet, my thoughts drifted back to the journal.

To the name written inside.

Adrian Wilson.

And for reasons l couldn’t explain, l knew—this was only the beginning.

Sleep refused to come.

I lay on my grandma’s old bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind refusing to quiet down. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, making everything feel more unsettling. Beside me, Clara was fast asleep, her breathing slow and steady, completely at peace. I envied her for that.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the journal.

"Isabella Gray, you’ve come at last. The question is, will you stay?"

The words felt like they had been burned into my mind. And then there was that name—Adrian Wilson. The way it had appeared just before the attic window had burst open, the way my chest had tightened upon seeing it. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It couldn't be.

I turned onto my side, facing away from Clara. Maybe I was just overthinking everything. Maybe it was nothing more than an old journal filled with cryptic nonsense. But then why had my grandma been so protective of it? Why had she snatched it away all those years ago, warning me never to touch it?

The unease in my stomach only grew.

Letting out a quiet sigh, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. The screen’s brightness stung my eyes for a moment, but I quickly adjusted. I hesitated for a second, then opened my browser.

Adrian Wilson.

I typed the name in and hit search.

At first, nothing stood out. A few irrelevant profiles, some social media accounts that didn’t match. But then, as I scrolled further, a headline caught my eye.

"Mysterious Disappearance of Celebrated Writer Adrian Wilson"

My breath hitched.

I clicked on the link, my pulse quickening as the article loaded. A grainy black-and-white photo of a man appeared at the top—young, sharp features, deep-set eyes that held a haunting intensity. There was something eerily familiar about him, though I was certain I had never seen him before.

I scrolled down.

"Adrian Wilson, a promising historical fiction writer, vanished without a trace fifteen years ago. Known for his in-depth research and compelling storytelling, Wilson was last seen near his family estate on the night of October 18th 2009. Authorities were baffled by his sudden disappearance, as there were no signs of struggle or forced entry. His house was left untouched, with no indication of where he might have gone. His last known work remains unpublished, and his case was eventually declared cold."

I sat up, my heart pounding so loudly I was afraid it would wake Clara.

October 18th,2009.

The date carved into my memory.

The date my parents and brother died.

A shiver ran down my spine. I read the line again, as if hoping I had seen it wrong. But there it was, in black and white—Adrian Wilson disappeared on the exact same night my family had their so-called accident.

I swallowed, gripping my phone tighter.

This wasn’t just a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

My hands were clammy as I kept reading, but the rest of the article didn’t offer many answers—just speculation. Some believed he had run away, overwhelmed by something unknown. Others thought foul play was involved. But no one had any real proof. No body, no note, no sign of where he had gone. He had simply vanished.

Just like that.

I exhaled shakily, glancing at the journal on the desk. It remained closed, unmoving, yet it felt like it was staring back at me, daring me to open it again.

Was Adrian Wilson connected to my family’s tragedy? And if so… how?

A gust of wind rattled the window, making my skin prickle. The house suddenly felt colder.

I needed answers. But something told me I wouldn’t find them in a simple internet search.

I had to go deeper.

I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the search bar. The logical thing to do would be to put the phone down and try to sleep. But how could I, after this?

Adrian Wilson.

The name echoed in my head.

I opened another tab and searched again, this time being more specific—Adrian Wilson writer last interview, Adrian Wilson last seen, Adrian Wilson missing case details.

Most articles repeated the same details—his sudden disappearance, the lack of any leads, the unfinished manuscript he left behind. But the deeper I dug, the stranger it became.

His last interview was with a small, now-defunct literary magazine. The article was archived on an obscure website, barely holding together with broken links and missing images. But the text was still readable.

"Adrian Wilson is unlike most historical fiction writers. While others focus on dramatized retellings, he dives deep into the shadows of history, unearthing the secrets long buried."

"There are stories hidden between the lines of what we consider facts," he had said. "Truths that were never meant to be discovered."

I swallowed, scrolling further.

"When asked about his upcoming book, Wilson only gave a cryptic response: ‘Some stories should never be written, but this one demands to be told.’"

The interviewer had pressed for details, but he refused to elaborate.

The article ended with a final note—his last public appearance was at a bookstore event just a week before he vanished. Attendees recalled how distracted he seemed, constantly checking over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be there.

I frowned.

What was he writing about?

I switched back to image search and found an old picture—Adrian at a book signing. He was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked… troubled.

Another photo showed him outside an old house, the caption reading:

"Adrian Wilson at his ancestral home in Scotland, months before his disappearance."

Paris.

My stomach twisted.

Could it be—? No. That was ridiculous. It wasn’t like he and I were somehow connected. But still, it was unsettling.

I kept scrolling, my mind racing, until I found a mention of his unpublished manuscript.

"The unfinished novel, found in Wilson's study, remains a mystery. Some claim it was a fictionalized account of an unsolved historical event. Others believe it was something much closer to home—something he wasn’t supposed to uncover."

I tapped my fingers against my phone. What if his disappearance wasn’t random? What if it had something to do with what he had been writing?

A chill ran through me.

I needed to know more.

I typed in a new search—Adrian Wilson missing October 18 accident reports.

Most results were unrelated. But then, buried deep in a forum thread from years ago, I found something. A discussion about Adrian’s case.

At first, it was just speculation. Some thought he had run away, others that he had been silenced for knowing too much. But one comment stood out.

Strange coincidence that he vanished on the same day as that accident in Paris. But no one talks about that, do they?"

My breath hitched.

What accident?

I clicked the link attached to the comment. It led to an old news article.

My blood turned to ice.

It was about my parents. The accident. The one that had changed my life forever.

I stared at the screen, my vision blurring.

There—right beneath the article, hidden in the comment section, was another post.

"People are focusing on the wrong thing. It's not just about the accident. It’s about what happened before that night. Someone else disappeared too. But no one’s asking the right questions."

The reply had no username. No further explanation.

But I already knew who they were talking about.

Adrian Wilson.

My fingers trembled as I put my phone down.

This didn’t make sense. How could he be connected to my family? Why had he vanished on the same night? Was it truly a coincidence, or was there something more?

I felt like I was standing at the edge of something terrifying, something I wasn’t sure I wanted to understand.

But I had no choice.

I had to keep digging.

I took a shaky breath and ran a hand through my hair. This wasn’t just some eerie coincidence. There had to be something more.

Why did Adrian disappear the same night my parents died?

My fingers moved on their own as I typed into the search bar again. Adrian Wilson unfinished book location.

At first, nothing useful came up—just the same old articles about his disappearance, speculations about why he left his last manuscript incomplete. Some called it “The Lost Story,” claiming it contained secrets he wasn’t meant to uncover. Others believed it never existed at all.

But then—

I found a thread on a forgotten literary forum, buried deep beneath years of unanswered posts.

"Does anyone know where Adrian Wilson’s last manuscript is? I heard it wasn’t destroyed. Someone hid it."

Someone replied:

"It was never published, but that doesn’t mean it was lost. People say it’s locked away somewhere. Maybe even somewhere he didn’t want it to be found."

Another user had commented:

"There was a rumor that his manuscript contained real events disguised as fiction. Maybe that’s why he disappeared. Some things are better left unknown."

My pulse quickened.

A real event?

What if Adrian wasn’t just writing a book—what if he had uncovered something?

What if he knew the truth about my parents?

I scrolled further, desperate for more, until I saw a post that made my breath hitch.

"I don’t know if this is true, but someone once claimed Adrian Wilson’s research led him to a particular family—a family that had been involved in something dark. His book was never finished because he got too close to something dangerous."

I sat up straighter.

A family.

I clicked on the user’s profile, but their account had been deleted.

My mind raced. Could he have been researching my family?

I checked the timestamps. The forum discussion had taken place before my parents’ accident.

My heart pounded.

This isn’t just about Adrian.

He had been looking for something. Digging into something. And if his disappearance was connected to my parents’ death, then it meant—

They were murdered.

My hands trembled as I opened another tab.

I searched for more details on Adrian’s last known location.

"Adrian Wilson was last seen at a historical site in Scotland, days before his disappearance."

A shiver ran through me.

I kept scrolling until I found something else—a vague mention of a letter.

"There were whispers that Adrian sent someone a letter before he disappeared. But no one knows who received it."

I inhaled sharply.

What if that letter still exists? What if it holds the answers?

And the biggest question of all—

Where is Adrian Wilson’s unfinished book?

Because if it was still out there—hidden somewhere—

Then maybe, just maybe, it could tell me everything I needed to know.

I was so lost in my thoughts, staring at the glowing screen, that when a voice broke the silence, my heart nearly stopped.

"Issa…?"

I jolted, my fingers slipping off the keyboard. My breath caught in my throat as I turned sharply towards her side.

Clara sat on bed , rubbing her eyes sleepily, her hair a mess from sleep. The dim light from the phone screen cast eerie shadows across the room, making her look almost ghostly in the darkness.

My pulse was still racing. "Clara—" My voice came out hoarse.

She frowned. "What are you doing awake?" Her gaze flickered toward my laptop screen, and I subtly tilted it away.

"Couldn't sleep," I mumbled, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Clara yawned, stretching her arms. "Well, I don’t blame you. This place feels weird at night." She looked around, then narrowed her eyes at me. "You okay?"

I swallowed, nodding quickly. "Yeah. Just… thinking."

Her sleepy gaze lingered on me for a moment, but then she sighed. "Whatever. Come on, try to get some sleep."

"Yeah,you should sleep. I will be sleeping in a few minutes" I replied

I hesitated, glancing once more at the screen, the last words of my search still glaring back at me—

"Adrian Wilson’s unfinished book remains missing to this day."

I shut the phone with a quiet click.

Clara was already shuffling back toward her spot, muttering something about me "being too much of a night owl."

I exhaled slowly, my chest still tight.

No. I wasn’t going to tell her. Not yet.

Not until I had more answers.

For now, I just needed to sleep.

Even if, deep down, I knew that sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.