The photograph wouldn't leave her mind. Even as Amara tucked the letters safely back into the box and pushed it beneath her bed, Jonas's face lingered in her thoughts sharp jaw, unreadable eyes, a presence that felt far too alive for a man from the past.
By mid afternoon, her restlessness had grown unbearable. She needed answers, and there was only one person she could think to ask.
Her mother.
Amara found her in the sitting room, knitting while the radio hummed softly in the background. The steady click of needles usually soothed Amara, but today it grated against her nerves.
"Mom," she began carefully, sliding onto the sofa beside her, "can I ask you something about Grandma?"
Her mother's hands stilled. "What about her?"
Amara hesitated. The words felt heavy on her tongue. "Do you know anyone by the name of… Jonas K.?"
The effect was instant. Her mother's eyes snapped up, wide and unguarded. For a split second, fear flashed across her face raw, unmasked before she dropped her gaze to the yarn in her lap.
"Where did you hear that name?" she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut.
Amara's heart raced. "I… I found a photograph. And a letter. Grandma mentioned him."
Her mother's lips pressed into a thin line. "You shouldn't be digging into her past."
"But why?" Amara pushed, leaning forward. "She wrote about him. She said he took something from her. Who was he?"
Her mother shook her head, the color draining from her face. "Amara, listen to me." Her voice trembled now, almost pleading. "Some stories are better left buried. Your grandmother… she carried her secrets for a reason. Jonas K. is not a name you should ever say again."
The air thickened, heavy with tension. Amara's throat tightened. She wanted to demand more, but the look in her mother's eyes silenced her a look that was equal parts terror and warning.
"Promise me," her mother whispered. "Promise me you'll leave this alone."
Amara swallowed hard, nodding even though her chest burned with unanswered questions.
That night, she sat at her desk, the photograph of Jonas and her grandmother lying under the soft glow of her lamp. She traced their faces with her eyes, memorizing the lines, the curve of their smiles.
Why would her mother be so afraid of a man long gone?
She was still staring when a sound broke the silence.
A faint scrape against the floor.
Her pulse spiked. She froze, listening. The house was still. Too still. She forced herself to breathe, shaking her head. Probably just the wind.
But when she turned back to her desk, her stomach dropped.
An envelope lay on top of the photograph.
It hadn't been there a moment ago.
Her trembling hand reached for it. The paper was clean, the handwriting elegant but unfamiliar. She unfolded it slowly, her breath shallow.
One sentence stared back at her, written in dark ink:
"Stop reading the letters."
Amara's hands shook so badly the note slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor.
Someone knew.
Someone was watching.