....
Dawn broke in shards of pale light, filtering through the curtains of Emma's old bedroom. She woke with a jolt, heart still racing from the events of the night before. The locket lay on her nightstand, the silver cool against her palm. For a moment, she relived the whisper: *"He's still here."*
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, drawing in a shaky breath. The room was exactly as she'd left it years ago—posters of bands she no longer listened to, bookshelves half-empty, glow-in-the-dark stars clinging to the ceiling. Emma rubbed her temples and forced herself to stand.
In the kitchen, her mother stirred oatmeal, the aroma of cinnamon wafting through the air.
"Morning," her mother said softly.
"Hi," Emma replied, pulling out a chair. She wrapped her hands around a mug of black coffee, the bitter warmth grounding her.
Her mother slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of her. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
Emma took a bite, the creamy texture and spice a stark contrast to her frayed nerves. She studied her mother's face—hollow cheeks, eyes shadowed by sleeplessness.
"Tell me everything you know," Emma said.
Her mother hesitated, then set down her spoon. "The forest… it's seen things it shouldn't. People said the trees whispered at night. Some believed the earth itself was alive with secrets."
Emma leaned forward. "And Elena?"
Her mother's eyes welled with tears. "Your sister… she wanted to prove it was just legend. She thought she could handle it. But she found something real, something dangerous."
Emma's chest tightened. "What did she find?"
Her mother looked away. "I don't know. She never spoke of it. After she vanished, I burned her notes. I thought if I destroyed them, the past would die too."
Emma felt a sob rise in her throat. "You destroyed evidence."
Her mother nodded. "I protected you. And I protected her memory."
Silence stretched between them. Emma's mind raced back to the envelope—*Ask your mother.* Now she understood why.
"Then we need to go back," Emma said. "We need to find any clue that survived."
Her mother's lips trembled. "It's too dangerous."
Emma's voice hardened. "We don't have a choice."
Later that morning, Emma retrieved Elena's leather journal from the attic. Dust swirled in the shaft of sunlight as she opened it to the first page. Each entry was penned in Elena's neat, cursive script, chronicling small adventures, childish arguments, and dreams of escape. Emma turned pages until she reached May entries—then June, where Elena's tone shifted.
> *June 3rd: The wind in the forest sounds like voices. I heard my name last night. I thought it was Emma, but she wasn't there.*
> *June 10th: There's a tree that bleeds. I touched the bark. It stained my fingers.*
> *June 15th: He told me to come back. I don't know who he is, but I can feel his eyes on me.*
Emma's stomach churned. The words mirrored her own experience, ten years later. She closed the book and took a steadying breath.
At noon, she met Logan at Greenhollow Secondary's abandoned courtyard. He blinked at the journal in her arms.
"What have you got?" he asked.
"Elena's journal," Emma said. "She wrote about voices and a bleeding tree. She knew something was watching her."
Logan's jaw clenched. "We saw it last night."
Emma nodded. "We need to map the entries to locations. Maybe she marked something I missed."
They laid out a rough map of Greenhollow on the cracked pavement, sifting through journal passages and marking nodal points: the old oak by the cemetery, the lighthouse foundation, the clearing in the woods.
By late afternoon, they had three potential sites. Emma chose the first—an abandoned shed on the edge of town where Elena once stashed souvenirs. Logan grabbed his flashlight and followed her down a narrow lane.
The shed door hung open. Inside, broken glass crunched underfoot. Emma rummaged through dusty crates until she uncovered a charred box. Fingers trembling, she opened it to find a pocket watch—engraved with initials *E.C.* and *E.J.*—and a gray scarf matching Elena's description.
Logan shone his light onto a scrap of paper tucked beneath the box. Emma picked it up:
> *Midnight. By the lighthouse. Don't trust the shadows.*
Emma's breath caught. "It's not just chance. She left clues."
Logan nodded. "Then we'll follow them. Together."
They emerged into dusk, clutching the watch and note. Emma's resolve solidified—Elena had been guiding her even from beyond. The journey ahead would be treacherous, but Emma no longer felt alone.
As night fell once more, Emma tucked the journal and pocket watch into her bag. She glanced up at the sky, stars faint behind marching clouds.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, "we face the lighthouse."
....