Chapter 1 — Echoes of Home

Emma

The first thing Emma noticed as she stepped out of her car was how quiet the street had become. The familiar creak of the Carter family home’s porch swing was missing, its gentle, rhythmic sound replaced by the stagnant hum of cicadas in the late afternoon heat. The house loomed in front of her, its weathered white siding more chipped than she remembered, the porch steps sagging slightly as though weary of the years that had passed. The sight of it made her chest tighten—a physical response to the memories it carried, both warm and unbearable.

Emma adjusted the strap of her duffel bag on her shoulder and inhaled deeply, the crisp scent of autumn mingling with the faint tang of damp wood. She had promised herself this would be temporary. Just enough time to help her father get back on his feet. Just enough time to face what she'd left behind.

The front door opened with a groan that sounded almost reluctant, and the familiar scent of old wood and lavender immediately enveloped her. Her mother’s scent, still lingering after all these years, struck her with a pang of longing. She stood in the doorway for a moment, her eyes scanning the living room. The mismatched furniture and faded family photos still held their places as though waiting for someone to pick up where life had left off. But the house was quieter than ever—too quiet.

“Dad?” she called softly, her voice echoing faintly through the empty space.

“In the kitchen,” came the weak reply.

She found her father seated at the worn kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. His frame seemed smaller, frailer than the last time she’d seen him. His thinning hair was combed neatly, but his eyes, once sharp and steady, carried the weight of years and loss.

“You made it,” he said, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.

“I did,” Emma replied, setting her bag down and moving to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee from the pot. It smelled burnt, and she suspected it had been sitting there all day.

“How was the drive?”

“Uneventful.” She blew on the coffee, the steam curling upward like a ghost of the words she wasn’t saying. She didn’t want to talk about the drive. She didn’t want to talk about why she was back.

Her father nodded absently, his gaze drifting out the window to the overgrown backyard. “It’s good to have you home.”

Emma didn’t respond immediately, the words catching in her throat. “It’s good to be here,” she said instead, though the hollow ring in her voice betrayed her attempt at conviction. Brushing her fingers along the edge of the table, she stepped away, the silence between them stretching like an invisible barrier neither dared to cross.

Later, after helping her father settle in for the night, Emma found herself lingering in the living room, her eyes tracing the lines of the faded photos on the mantle. One photo caught her attention—a snapshot of her, James, and Tom as teenagers, the three of them laughing, carefree. The weight of the past pressed against her chest, and she turned away, her gaze drifting to the faintly visible attic door at the end of the hallway. Something about the house seemed to pull her toward it, an insistent nudge she couldn’t ignore.

The air in the attic was stuffy and thick with the scent of dust and time gone by. The faint glow of the overhead bulb cast long shadows across the boxes and trunks that lined the small space. Emma hesitated on the creaky floorboards, her heart pounding in the quiet.

She sat in the center of the attic, legs crossed, and began opening boxes at random. Old toys, stacks of school papers, her mother’s sewing kit. Each item brought with it a pang of nostalgia and an ache she didn’t care to examine too closely.

It wasn’t until she pulled out an unmarked envelope tucked between two faded scrapbooks that her heart stuttered. The weight of it in her hands felt ominous, and a strange, electric tension hummed in the back of her mind. She slid her finger along the seal, her breath catching as she pulled out a worn leather journal.

James’s journal.

Emma’s hands trembled as she opened it, the leather cool and weathered against her fingertips. The pages were filled with her brother’s messy handwriting, each line alive with his energy and curiosity. She could almost hear his voice in the words—lighthearted and confident. But as she flipped through, the tone shifted. The sentences became darker, heavier, and disjointed, his words punctuated by scratches and underlines that betrayed his increasing unease.

One entry stopped her cold:

“There’s something wrong about the Reynolds family. Something no one else sees. I think they’re hiding something big. And I think it’s dangerous.”

Her stomach twisted as she read the words again, the ink slightly smudged as though James had written it in a hurry. Beneath it, a list of locations was scrawled—places she recognized: the Old Bridge, the abandoned mill, the forest clearing. Her fingers grazed the edges of the page as her mind raced.

The Old Bridge.

Emma’s breath came faster as memories crashed into her. The bridge where James had died. The bridge she had avoided ever since. She could still see the way the metal guardrail had bent, the jagged edge where it had failed to stop the car. Could she have done something—anything—to change that night? Her chest constricted at the thought, guilt wrapping around her like a heavy chain.

She closed the journal, her pulse thrumming. The attic felt smaller now, its walls pressing in as though it, too, wanted her to confront what she’d found.

Back in her bedroom later that night, Emma sat on the edge of the bed, the journal perched on her lap. The words she’d read replayed in her mind like a broken record. James had known something. He’d been afraid. And now, years later, she was holding the evidence he’d left behind.

She flipped through the journal again, her eyes lingering on the list of locations. Each one seemed to call to her, demanding attention. But the bridge stood out most of all—a symbol of everything she’d tried to bury.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. When it did, it brought dreams of James’s laughter, the sound so real that she woke gasping, tears slipping down her cheeks. She reached for the journal on the nightstand, its presence both comfort and torment.

In the morning, she rose before the sun, standing at the kitchen sink with her coffee as the first light crept through the windows. The journal sat on the counter beside her, its presence heavy and insistent.

Her father shuffled into the kitchen, his steps slow but steady. He paused when he saw her, his eyes flicking to the journal.

“What’s that?” he asked cautiously.

“James’s journal,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

His expression tightened, and for a moment, she thought he might say something. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out the milk. “It’s been years, Emma. Maybe it’s better to let it rest.”

She turned to him, her voice sharp with frustration. “You think I haven’t tried? I’ve tried for years, Dad. But I can’t. Not anymore.”

He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. “Just… be careful.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than before, a chasm neither could bridge.

By the time the sun rose fully, Emma was already at the door, the journal tucked into her bag. The Old Bridge waited, and with it, the questions she couldn’t ignore.

As she drove through the quiet streets, the town seemed smaller than she remembered, its familiar landmarks tinged with an unshakable sense of dread. The past lingered here, clinging to every corner, every shadow, refusing to let go.

When she reached the bridge, she parked the car and stepped out, the cool morning air biting at her cheeks. The structure stood before her, rusting and broken, its silence deafening. A faint breeze stirred the overgrowth along the guardrail, bending it just enough to reveal something—scuff marks on the metal, jagged and deliberate.

Emma gripped the journal tightly, her breath fogging as she took her first step onto the bridge. And for the first time in years, she let herself remember.