Chapter 5 - Returning to Maple Street
The old house on Maple Street looked smaller than Helena remembered. The white paint was peeling around the porch columns, and the sprawling hydrangeas her mother had tended had overgrown into tangled, woody thickets. Following her parents' deaths, Helena had kept the property out of pure stubbornness, visiting once a month to collect the mail and dust the furniture that no one used.
Two days after their meeting in the library, Helena unlocked the front door, stepping aside to let Clara and Lily enter.
Little Lily gasped, her eyes wide as she took in the high ceilings, the grandfather clock ticking solemnly in the hallway, and the framed sepia photographs lining the wainscoting.
"Is this where Grandma Evelyn grew up?" Lily asked, her voice hushed with reverence.
"It is," Helena smiled, though a heavy sadness lingered in her chest. She led them down the central hallway toward the back parlor, stopping before a heavy mahogany door. "And up in the attic... her old room is still exactly as she left it. My father locked the door the morning she disappeared, and I don't think the key has turned in the lock since."
Clara’s breath hitched. She reached out, her fingers brushing the brass doorknob. "Do you have the key?"
Helena reached into the pocket of her cardigan, pulling out a heavy, iron key attached to a faded red ribbon—the same ribbon her mother had used to mark the household inventory books. She slid it into the keyhole. With a stiff, protesting squeak, the lock gave way.
Pushing the door open, Helena switched on the wall sconce.
Dust motes danced in the pale beam of light, settling over an iron-framed bed covered with a faded quilt, a wooden writing desk scarred with ink stains, and a bookshelf lined with dog-eared novels from the 1980s. On the bedside table sat a small porcelain jewelry dish, holding a single, dried-up lavender sprig and an old hair ribbon.
May you like
Clara stepped inside, her boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. She walked over to the desk, her fingers tracing the edge of the wood where Evelyn had spent countless hours studying, dreaming, and planning her escape.
"She's here," Clara whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I can feel her."
