The air smelled like burnt sugar and damp earth as Mara tightened her grip on the rusted gate, its hinges groaning like a wounded animal. The sun hung low over the horizon, casting long shadows through the skeletal trees that lined the abandoned road. She didn’t look back. Not when the wind carried the faint sound of her brother’s voice, not when the sky turned the color of bruised flesh. She kept walking, her boots crunching over gravel as the weight of the duffel bag on her back grew heavier with every step. The map in her pocket was a crumpled thing, its edges frayed from hours of frantic scribbling. She’d traced the route three times, but the numbers didn’t add up. The coordinates led to a place that wasn’t on any map, a place her father had warned her about in hushed tones after the last storm. Mara didn’t know if it was a trap or a chance, but she couldn’t stay. Not when the house behind her was already burning.
The fire had started at dawn, a flicker of orange against the gray sky. Mara had been in the attic, sorting through boxes of old photographs and yellowed letters, when the smoke seeped through the cracks in the floorboards. She’d run downstairs, but the door was gone, consumed by flames that leapt higher than the roof. Her mother’s voice had been the last thing she heard before the world turned to ash. Now, the only thing left was the map and the promise of somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
The road ended at a crumbling bridge, its planks warped and splintered. Mara hesitated, her breath shallow as she peered over the edge. Below, the river churned with dark water, its surface reflecting the blood-red sky. She remembered her father’s stories about the river—how it swallowed people whole, how it whispered secrets to those who listened. But there was no other way. She stepped onto the bridge, each creak of the wood a warning. Halfway across, the wind shifted, carrying with it a scent she hadn’t smelled in years: lavender and old paper. Her throat tightened. That was her mother’s perfume.
Mara froze. The air grew still, the river’s roar fading into silence. Then, a sound—soft, like a whisper against her ear. “You shouldn’t have left.” She spun around, but the bridge was empty. The wind had returned, howling now, and the river beneath her feet seemed to pulse. She stumbled back, her hands scraping against the splintered wood. The map slipped from her pocket, fluttering down to the water below. Mara lunged for it, but the current was faster than she expected. The paper vanished into the depths, and with it, any hope of finding the place marked on the map.
She didn’t cry. Not then. Instead, she turned and ran, her boots slapping against the bridge’s surface as she fled the river’s edge. The forest loomed ahead, its trees thick and gnarled, their branches entwined like skeletal fingers. Mara didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay. The fire had taken everything—her home, her family, the life she’d known. Now, the only thing left was the road, and the unknown waiting beyond it.
The forest swallowed her whole. Shadows stretched long in the fading light, and the air grew colder with each step. Mara’s breath came in short bursts as she pushed through thorny vines and over fallen logs. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant call of a bird and the rustle of something moving in the underbrush. She didn’t stop. Not when her legs ached, not when the sky turned to ink and the first stars blinked into existence. She kept walking until her feet blistered and her fingers went numb, until the forest gave way to a clearing bathed in moonlight.
In the center of the clearing stood a house. Not the one she’d left behind, but something older, its wooden planks weathered and gray. The windows were dark, but the door stood ajar, as if waiting. Mara hesitated, her heart pounding. The air smelled of damp wood and something else—something sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit. She stepped closer, her boots crunching on the gravel path. The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Dust motes swirled in the moonlight that filtered through the cracks in the ceiling.
The house was empty, but not silent. She could hear it—whispers, faint and fragmented, like voices speaking from another room. Mara’s pulse quickened. “Hello?” she called, her voice swallowed by the stillness. No answer. She moved deeper into the house, her fingers tracing the walls as she went. The floorboards groaned beneath her weight, and the air grew heavier, thick with the scent of old paper and something metallic—like blood.
Then she saw it: a staircase leading to the second floor, its banister cracked and splintered. Mara climbed slowly, her breath shallow. The hallway at the top was narrow, the walls lined with doors. One stood ajar, a sliver of light spilling onto the floor. She stepped inside.
The room was filled with books. Stacks of them, piled haphazardly on shelves and desks. The air was thick with the scent of ink and aged paper. In the center of the room, a desk sat beneath a single bulb that flickered intermittently. On it lay a journal, its leather cover cracked and worn. Mara picked it up, her fingers tracing the embossed letters on the spine. “The Last Light of Summer,” it read. She opened it, and the pages were filled with entries in a shaky, hurried script.
“June 12th, 1997: The river is restless tonight. I heard her voice again, calling my name. I don’t know if it’s real or if I’m losing my mind. But the house feels different. Like it’s waiting for something.” The entry ended there, the ink smudged as if the writer had wiped their hand across the page.
Mara closed the journal, her hands trembling. This wasn’t just any house. It was a place of memories, of secrets. And somehow, she knew—this was where her father had hidden the truth.
She didn’t know how long she stayed there, poring over the journal’s entries, tracing the lines of the handwriting that mirrored her own. The house felt alive, its silence pressing in around her. But there was no turning back. Not now. The fire had taken everything, but this—this was a beginning.
As dawn broke, casting a pale light through the dusty windows, Mara closed the journal and stood. The house had given her something she hadn’t realized she needed: a purpose. She didn’t know what awaited her beyond these walls, but she would find it. She had to. For her mother. For her father. For herself.
She stepped out into the clearing, the morning air crisp against her skin. The forest stretched before her, vast and unknowable. But Mara didn’t hesitate. She had a map now, not of places, but of stories—of lives lived and lost, of secrets buried and unearthed. And she would follow them, no matter where they led.
