"She tried to save me. But now I see she was just in the way."
The rain had stopped.
But the silence that followed was worse.
Even the birds didn't dare return to Bly.
Ivy sat alone in the grand hallway, her knees tucked to her chest. She hadn't seen Flora all day. Miles had gone out on his black horse at dawn and hadn't returned.
It should've worried her.
But instead... it thrilled her.
She was alone in his house now. The house that breathed with history. The house that belonged to them.
That's when she saw it.
A loose floorboard near the base of the stairs.
It wasn't something she'd noticed before. But now, it called to her—almost as if the house wanted her to find it.
She reached down and pried it open with her bare hands, nails digging into the wood until they cracked.
Inside, covered in dust and time:
A faded red notebook.
Kate's handwriting.
The first few pages were ordinary.
Her thoughts about the house. Her worries about Flora. The initial fear she felt around Miles. Ivy could barely recognize her sister in the careful loops of ink.
Then came the darker entries.
"He watches Ivy. Always. I catch him staring through the mirrors."
"There are footsteps at night. Not just his. Peter's? No. It's him THROUGH Miles."
"I dream of the lake. I think it wants to swallow us. One by one."
Ivy flipped faster, her hands trembling.
"Miles isn't Miles."
"He kissed Ivy's hand last night. She smiled. She doesn't even see it."
"Miss Jessel's perfume lingers outside my room. She's dead. I know she is."
"I found the attic. Peter Quint's room is hidden under layers. Why is Miles sleeping there now?"
The final page stopped Ivy's breath.
"If I disappear—don't trust the mirrors. Don't trust the lake. Don't trust HIM."
"I tried to pull her back. But I think she's already gone."
"She doesn't remember who she is anymore."
"My sister is in love with a ghost."
A creak.
Ivy looked up.
Flora stood in the doorway, holding her broken doll.
"You found it," she whispered. "I wondered when you would."
Flora walked slowly across the floor, her dress stained with lake water.
"She went looking," she said. "She looked too hard."
"Looked for what?"
Flora tilted her head. "The truth."
Ivy took the journal to Miles's room that night.
She held it in her hands, staring at the pages like they were covered in poison. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
She waited for him.
He didn't come.
So she went to him.
The attic was cold.
Unlit.
But she knew the way now. Her bare feet silent against the wooden stairs.
At the top, the door was cracked open.
And there was the room.
Quint's room.
Miles's room.
And in the center, the black horse saddle. Dusty. Burned at the edges. Marked with a Q.
Ivy turned in a slow circle.
Photos on the wall. All of Miles. All defaced. Eyes scratched out. Faces blurred.
But one photo—right in the middle—was new.
It was her.
Ivy.
Smiling.
Kissing Miles's cheek.
It hadn't happened yet.
She backed away.
Something whispered behind her.
"Do you still think you're real?"
She turned. No one there.
The attic door slammed shut.
And Miles stepped out from the shadows.
Eyes cold. Smile soft.
"I missed you," he said.
Ivy ran to him. She dropped the journal. Dropped the truth.
Fell into his arms.
And never looked back.