Mara sat on the attic floor, the knife at her side, its rusty blade dull in the growing dawn light that filtered through the cracked windowpane. The air was still, heavy with the scent of old wood and dust, and the faint metallic tang of the blade lingered in her nostrils. Her knees were drawn up slightly, her body resting against the rough-hewn boards, their edges worn smooth by time and neglect. She shifted slightly, feeling the uneven grain beneath her, grounding her in this moment of stillness after the chaos that had consumed her night.
The ash was gone—swept away by a breeze she couldn't feel, leaving the boards clean, the burlap scrap a crumpled heap by the trunk. She stared at it, that small piece of fabric, its faded brown threads unraveling at the edges, no longer bearing the weight of the initials she'd once traced with trembling fingers. It was just a thing now, stripped of its power, its menace. The trunk beside it loomed dark and silent, its iron latch rusted shut, a relic of secrets she'd finally pried open. She exhaled slowly, watching her breath dissipate into the cool air, a faint mist that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Her shoulder ached, a steady pulse under the torn jacket, and the scar on her arm was still, a pale line etched into her skin. She reached up instinctively, pressing her fingers against the fabric, feeling the dampness where blood had soaked through hours before. The pain was a dull throb now, a reminder of the struggle, the clash of steel and will that had unfolded in this very room. She flexed her fingers, testing the stiffness, and winced as the movement tugged at the raw edges of the wound. The scar, though—that was older, a quiet testament to battles fought long before this night. It didn't burn or itch anymore; it simply was, a part of her, like the lines of her palms or the curve of her jaw.
The house was silent, its groans and shudders replaced by a calm that felt fragile, like glass waiting to crack. She tilted her head, listening, half-expecting the familiar creak of the floorboards or the distant rattle of the pipes. Nothing came. The stillness pressed against her ears, a void so deep it seemed to hum with its own quiet presence. She wondered if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what she would do next, now that the shadows it harbored had been banished. The thought made her lips twitch, a faint, wry smile that faded as quickly as it came.
She'd done it—faced him, reclaimed Ellie, ended the nightmare. The weight of her guilt, her father's twisted echo, had dissolved with the ash, and Ellie's voice—I'm already here—warmed the hollow she'd carried for years. She closed her eyes, letting the memory of those words wash over her, soft and clear, like a melody she'd forgotten until it played again. Ellie's presence had been a thread through her life, frayed and buried beneath layers of regret, but now it shone bright, stitching the torn pieces of her soul back together. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart, and marveled at how it no longer felt like a stranger's rhythm.
She was whole, or as close to it as she could be, the pieces of her past stitched back with something stronger than fear. It wasn't perfect—there were still jagged edges, places where the seams didn't quite align—but it was enough. She'd spent so long running from the ghosts, from the man her father had become, from the little girl she'd failed to protect. Now, she could breathe, could sit in this attic and feel the weight of survival rather than shame. Her fingers brushed the knife's handle, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth blooming within her, and she nudged it aside, letting it rest against the floor.
But the quiet gnawed at her, a void where Ellie's cries had been, and she couldn't shake the sense that something lingered. She opened her eyes, scanning the attic's dim corners, the shadows that clung to the rafters like cobwebs. The light was stronger now, painting the room in hues of gold and gray, but it didn't reach everywhere. There was a heaviness, a whisper of presence she couldn't name, and it made her skin prickle. She told herself it was exhaustion, the aftershock of adrenaline fading, but her gaze kept drifting to the rotary phone perched on the small table near the wall.
The phone buzzed, a single, soft hum. Mara's breath caught, her eyes snapping to the rotary. It sat still, its cord limp, the receiver on the hook—yet the sound trembled through the attic, faint but unmistakable. Her heart stuttered, a quick, sharp jolt that sent a shiver down her spine. She stared at it, the black plastic gleaming dully in the light, its bell silent now, as if it had never rung at all. But she'd heard it—she knew she had. Her hand twitched at her side, caught between reaching for it and pulling away, her mind racing with questions she wasn't sure she wanted answered.
She hesitated, her hand hovering, the memory of Ellie's last words pulling her forward. I'm already here. The phrase echoed in her skull, a lifeline she couldn't let go of, even now. What if this was real? What if Ellie was reaching out, one last time, to bridge the gap between them? Her throat tightened, a knot of hope and dread twisting together. She needed this—one final goodbye, a chance to seal the wound that had festered since the day Ellie vanished into her father's darkness. Her fingers closed around the receiver, the plastic cool against her skin, and she lifted it slowly, pressing it to her ear. Her voice came out as a whisper, fragile and raw. "Ellie?"
"Mara," Ellie replied, clear and steady, no trace of static or panic. "It's me. I just… I wanted to see you one more time." The sound of her sister's voice—unchanged, unbroken—hit Mara like a wave, crashing through the walls she'd built to keep the pain at bay. It was Ellie, not the frightened child from her memories, but the essence of her, calm and sure, as if time had never touched her.
Tears welled in Mara's eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. They traced hot paths down her cheeks, dripping onto the collar of her jacket. "I thought you were gone. You said—"
"I am," Ellie said, gentle, like a breeze through the trees outside, rustling the leaves in a rhythm Mara could almost hear. "But I couldn't leave without this. You did it, Mara—you saved us. He's gone, and I'm free. I wanted you to know that." There was a lightness in her tone, a peace that Mara hadn't dared imagine, and it broke something open inside her, a dam she hadn't known was still holding.
Mara clutched the phone, her chest tight, her knuckles whitening around the receiver. "I'm sorry—for forgetting you, for leaving you with him. I didn't know how to—" The words tumbled out, jagged and desperate, all the apologies she'd carried for years spilling into the space between them. She'd been so young, so powerless, when their father's rage had turned on Ellie, and the guilt had rooted deep, a weed she couldn't pull free.
"Stop," Ellie interrupted, firm but kind, her voice cutting through Mara's spiral. "You didn't leave me. You survived. That's what I needed you to do—what we needed. I was always part of you, even when you couldn't see it. Now you can." The certainty in her words was a balm, soothing the raw edges of Mara's grief, and she felt it settle into her, a truth she'd been too afraid to claim.
The attic blurred through her tears, the dawn light softening the edges of the room, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, and saw the familiar shapes—the trunk, the knife, the burlap—transformed by the glow into something less menacing, less heavy. It was still the same attic, still the same house, but it felt different now, as if Ellie's voice had washed it clean.
"I feel you," Mara said, her voice breaking, a sob threatening to swallow her words. "Like a piece I didn't know was missing. But it hurts—letting you go." She pressed her free hand to her chest again, feeling that warmth, that strength, and wondered how she could hold onto it without holding Ellie back.
"It won't," Ellie promised, her tone fading slightly, a soft ebb like the tide pulling away. "Not forever. You're stronger now—whole. You don't need me to fight anymore. Just… live, okay? For both of us." The words were a gift, a charge, and Mara felt them sink into her bones, a promise she could keep.
Mara nodded, though Ellie couldn't see it, a sob catching in her throat. "I will. I promise." Her voice cracked, but it held, steady enough to carry her resolve. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, the rough fabric scraping against her skin, and took a shaky breath.
"Good," Ellie said, her voice barely a whisper now, slipping away like smoke through her fingers. "I love you, Mara. Always did." The words were faint, a final thread stretching thin, and then they were gone.
"I love you too," Mara choked out, but the line was silent, the hum gone, the connection severed. She held the receiver a moment longer, listening to the emptiness, then lowered it slowly, setting it back on the hook with a soft click. The tears came freely now, hot and steady, streaming down her face and pooling in the hollow of her throat. She didn't fight them, didn't wipe them away—just let them fall, washing the ash from her hands, the blood from her soul.
The attic felt lighter, the air cleaner, as if Ellie's words had lifted a veil she hadn't known was there. She sat there for a long moment, her back against the wall, her breathing uneven but slowing. The dawn was brighter now, spilling through the window in golden waves, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. She watched them, mesmerized by their quiet dance, and felt a calm settle over her, fragile but real.
She stood, wincing at the pain in her shoulder, and crossed to the trunk. Her movements were deliberate, each step a small victory over the stiffness in her limbs. The burlap scrap lay crumpled, blank now, no initials, no stitches—just fabric, worn and ordinary. She picked it up, running her fingers over its rough surface, feeling the texture beneath her calluses. It was nothing special, nothing sacred, and that made it easier to let go. She dropped it back into the trunk, shutting the lid with a soft thud that echoed faintly in the stillness.
The phone stayed silent, its cord coiled, a relic of a battle won. She glanced at it one last time, half-expecting another buzz, but it remained still, its purpose served. She turned away, her gaze settling on the ladder that led back to the world below, and felt a pull—not of fear, but of possibility.
Mara descended the ladder, her steps slow but sure, the house unfolding below her—broken but still standing. The rungs creaked under her weight, a familiar sound that grounded her as she moved. The hallway opened up, its peeling wallpaper and scuffed floors a testament to years of neglect, but it didn't feel oppressive anymore. She trailed her fingers along the wall, feeling the texture, and let her hand fall as she reached the dining room.
The dining room table was upright again, the diary closed, its pages smooth and unmarked. She paused by it, her fingers hovering over the leather cover, but she didn't open it. Whatever words had been scratched inside—her father's ravings, her own desperate notes—they didn't matter now. She pushed past, her boots scuffing the floor, and entered the kitchen.
The kitchen window hung open, the fog thinning outside, the shed a muted shape in the yard, its door shut tight. She leaned against the counter, peering out at the world beyond, and watched as the mist dissolved into the morning light. The shed stood silent, its warped wood and rusted hinges no longer a threat, just a shadow of what had been. She exhaled, her breath fogging the glass for a moment before it cleared.
She paused, her hand on the frame, and felt it—Ellie, not as a voice, but a warmth, a quiet strength woven into her bones. It wasn't a sound or a touch, but a certainty, a presence that filled the hollow spaces she'd carried for so long. She closed her eyes, letting it sink in, and felt her shoulders relax, the tension bleeding away.
She stepped outside, the cold air sharp against her face, and locked the door behind her. The key turned easily in the lock, the click final, a sound that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. She slipped it into her pocket, her fingers brushing the torn fabric, and felt the weight of it settle there, a small anchor to the past she could carry without breaking.
The car waited by the curb, its engine coughing to life as she started it, the sound grounding her in the now. The rumble vibrated through the seat, a steady hum that drowned out the silence of the house. She rested her hands on the wheel, feeling the worn leather beneath her palms, and took a deep breath, the crisp air filling her lungs.
She didn't look back—not at the house, not at the shed. She'd faced it, all of it, and she was done. The rearview mirror stayed empty, reflecting only the road ahead, and she let it be. There was no need to linger, no need to check for ghosts in the shadows. They were gone, and she was here.
As she pulled away, the radio flickered on, static humming low, and for a heartbeat, she swore she heard her name—soft, distant, a final echo. Her breath caught, her fingers tightening on the wheel, but she didn't reach for the dial. Instead, she listened, letting the sound—if it was real—wash over her one last time. Then she smiled, faint and tired, and turned it off, the click decisive.
The road stretched ahead, empty and hers, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the dawn. The sky was pale, streaked with pink and gold, and the world felt new, unburdened by the weight of yesterday. She drove, the hum of the engine her only companion, and let herself believe—for the first time in years—that she could keep going, that she could live, not just for herself, but for the sister who'd never left her side.