She cleaned obsessively. Changed linens. Removed flowers. Checked for allergens. Adjusted the lighting. Examined every visible corner.
Still, Elara worsened.
One afternoon, as sunlight flickered across the rug, Elara slipped into an uneasy sleep. Her fingers twitched. Her brow tightened. Her breathing thinned again.
Mara’s pulse raced.
Drawn by an urge she couldn’t name, she slowly circled the bed, then knelt. With trembling hands, she lifted the bed skirt.
And froze.
Beneath the bed sat a wooden chest.
It didn’t belong.
The room was modern, carefully curated. Every detail intentional. Yet this chest looked ancient—its wood cracked and scarred, dulled by time. Dust coated its edges.
The air beneath the bed felt heavy. Pressurized.
Mara pulled the chest into the light. The hinges creaked softly.
Inside lay a faded black-and-white photograph of a stern woman with sharp eyes. Beneath it rested a rusted locket, dried herbs bound with twine, an old rosary, and handwritten pages marked with unfamiliar symbols.
These weren’t keepsakes.
They were intentional.
Footsteps stopped behind her.
Julian stood in the doorway, color draining from his face as he saw the contents.