Chapter 4 — Whispers from the Past

Celeste

The cottage was quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of drying herbs swaying gently from the rafters. Sasha had stepped into the backroom, murmuring something about fetching supplies, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the journal spread before me. Its brittle pages carried the faint scent of old paper and ink, the leather binding frayed from years of handling. My mother’s handwriting, looping and precise, carried a maddening vagueness that felt deliberate—like the answers I sought were always just out of reach.