The kitchen clock ticked too loudly. Amara sat at the table with the bundle of letters in front of her, every tick dragging her further into a silence that felt unnatural. The house had never seemed so large, so hollow.
Her fingers hovered above the stack. The storm had passed, leaving the world outside hushed and damp. Rain still slid down the windows in thin rivulets, reflecting the glow of the single lamp. The air smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish her grandmother's house, her grandmother's absence.
Amara untied the faded ribbon with careful hands, as though the letters might crumble to dust. The top envelope stared back at her: May 6, 1998.
She tore it open with a trembling breath.
The letter unfolded with a soft crackle, the paper thin, almost translucent. She could still catch the faintest trace of lavender, as if her grandmother's hand had pressed the scent into the ink itself. Amara's throat tightened.
She began to read.
My dearest Amara,
If you are reading this, then I have failed to protect you from the truth. I promised myself these words would remain hidden, but time has its own will, and secrets cannot be caged forever. There are things about our family about you that I prayed you would never need to know.
Amara's heart skipped. She pressed the page closer, her eyes racing over the lines.
You will feel the weight of choices I once made, choices that bind us both. There are debts unpaid, blood that remembers, and a man whose name I never wished to write again: Jonas K.
The name jumped from the page, sharp and foreign. Amara whispered it aloud, the sound strange in her mouth. Jonas K.
Her grandmother's handwriting grew shakier as the letter went on.
He is dangerous, though not in the way you might think. If fate has brought these letters into your hands, then it means his shadow has stretched too close to you. Forgive me, Amara. Forgive me for the silence. Everything I did I did for you.
The ink blurred at the end, smudged as though her grandmother's hand had trembled too violently to finish. The letter stopped mid-thought, leaving Amara staring at the page, her pulse drumming in her ears.
Her grandmother had always been the warmest, gentlest presence in her life. A woman who baked bread on Sundays, who sang to her in the garden, who tucked her into bed with fairy tales whispered against her hair. And yet here was a stranger speaking through the page secretive, frightened, haunted by debts and shadows.
Amara's chest tightened. What did any of this mean? Who was Jonas K.?
Her eyes darted to the rest of the stack. Twenty three more envelopes, each carrying words her grandmother had hidden.
The silence of the house deepened, pressing in around her. Then
A sound.
Amara froze.
It was faint, but distinct: the scrape of movement against the back porch. She whipped her head toward the window. The rain slick glass reflected her own wide eyes, but for an instant just an instant she saw something else. A figure. Still. Watching.
Her chair scraped loudly against the floor as she shot to her feet. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
The yard was empty.
She pressed a hand to the glass, breath fogging the pane. Darkness pressed against the edges of the yard, shadows too thick for the weak porch light to pierce. Nothing moved. No one stood there.
Her hands shook as she yanked the curtain closed.
The letters sat on the table, quiet, patient, as if mocking her fear. She gathered them up in a rush, clutching them to her chest. The weight of them seemed heavier now, as if the secrets they carried had already begun pressing against her.
Her grandmother's words echoed in her mind: If fate has brought these letters into your hands…
Amara swallowed hard. She didn't know what her grandmother had meant to protect her from, but one thing was clear
She wasn't protected anymore.