Chapter 2 — Unsettled Memories
Emma Carter
The attic was a time capsule. The wooden stairs groaned with each step Emma took, and the air thickened with the scent of dust and old wood. A single, naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a dim, flickering light that barely penetrated the shadows pooling in the corners. Worn cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, alongside a collection of mismatched furniture draped in moth-eaten sheets. The weight of years spent untouched pressed heavily on the space, and on Emma.
She swiped her hand across her forehead, leaving a faint streak of dust behind. The open attic window allowed a faint, crisp breeze to stir the stale air, but it did little to dispel the feeling of standing in a tomb for forgotten memories. She knelt beside a box labeled "Carter Family Keepsakes" in her grandfather’s meticulous handwriting. The night before, after tossing and turning, the weight of Sally’s revelation about Luka had driven her to this moment—compelled her to confront the ghosts of her family’s past.
As she sifted through the box, Emma tried to focus on the task at hand instead of the knot of worry tightening in her chest. Sally’s words clung to her like smoke: Luka Hayes wanted to buy her house. Her house. The idea gnawed at her, feeding into the years of unresolved guilt and confusion she carried over the fire. What could Luka possibly want with the house? Did he still blame her for what had happened all those years ago?
Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled out an old photograph, its edges curling with age. She froze. It was a picture of her and Luka, both around thirteen, sitting on the front steps of the house. Emma was grinning, her auburn hair wild, her green eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. Luka sat beside her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a shy but genuine smile lighting up his face. Behind them, her family’s home stood pristine—white paint gleaming in the summer sun, the garden alive with her mother’s marigolds.
The sight of it sent a pang of bittersweet nostalgia through her. She could almost hear their laughter, the way Luka’s voice would break mid-sentence whenever he got excited. Her thumb traced over Luka’s face in the photograph, and suddenly, the memory of that day returned in sharp relief. It had been just a few months before the fire. Before everything changed.
The boy in the photograph was irreconcilable with the man she’d glimpsed from a distance years later—a polished, confident man with sharp blue eyes that seemed to cut through her when their paths accidentally crossed in the city. How had they gotten here, to this point where even the thought of him left her feeling unmoored?
Shaking herself free from the memory, Emma set the photograph aside and reached deeper into the box. Her fingers brushed against something firm and cool: a battered leather-bound journal. She lifted it, its stitching frayed along the edges, and recognized it immediately. Her grandfather’s journal. He had always carried this with him, jotting down daily observations, plans for the house, and anything else that struck him as worth preserving.
She opened it carefully, the fragile pages whispering against her fingertips. The faded ink of his familiar handwriting spread across the first page.
“June 14th, 1962. Began work on the porch today. Emma’s mother says it’s unnecessary, but I think she’ll change her mind once she sees it finished…”
A faint smile touched Emma’s lips. Her grandfather’s voice seemed to rise from the pages—warm, steady, and filled with purpose. She turned a few pages, skimming entries about landscaping, the weather, and small repairs. But there was something about the weight of the journal in her hands that felt significant, as though it held more than just family anecdotes. She resolved to read through it more thoroughly later.
A sharp knock on the floorboards below startled her, jarring her from her thoughts. Her mother’s voice drifted up the stairs, faint but firm. “Emma? You’ve been up there forever. Come have some lunch.”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Emma called back, carefully closing the journal and placing it atop the photograph. She cast one last glance around the attic, its air still heavy with the past, before heading downstairs.
---
The diner hummed with the low buzz of conversation when Emma entered later that day. The bell above the door jingled, and a few heads turned her way, their gazes lingering just long enough to remind her how small towns thrived on quiet scrutiny. She pulled her flannel sleeves down over her wrists and made a beeline for the counter, where Sally was refilling a pot of coffee.
“Back already?” Sally asked, raising an eyebrow.
Emma forced a smile. “I figured I should take your advice and get a better feel for what’s going on around here.”
Sally nodded approvingly, pouring her a cup of coffee without asking. “Good. Because I’ve been hearing some interesting things.”
Emma leaned forward instinctively, lowering her voice. “Like what?”
Sally glanced around the diner, her expression sharpening. “Not here. Too many ears.” She tilted her head toward the back door. “Give me five minutes. Meet me out back.”
Emma nodded, her pulse quickening. She sipped her coffee in silence, trying to ignore the sidelong glances from a couple at a nearby table. When Sally finally disappeared into the kitchen, Emma slipped out the back door into the narrow alley behind the diner.
Sally joined her moments later, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. She leaned against the brick wall, her sharp eyes scanning the alleyway before settling on Emma.
“You remember Frank Miller?” Sally asked, her voice low but intense.
“The retired firefighter?” Emma frowned. “Yeah, I remember. Why?”
Sally took a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling smoke that curled into the cool autumn air. “He was in here a couple of weeks ago. Talking about that night.”
Emma’s stomach twisted. “The fire?”
Sally nodded, her expression darkening. “Said he’d been thinking about it more lately. How certain things didn’t add up in the investigation. Things that got… glossed over.”
Emma’s heart thudded in her chest. “What kind of things?”
“Didn’t get into specifics. But he looked spooked. And then, just like that, he stops coming around. Word is, he packed up and left town.”
Emma’s mind raced. Frank had always been steady and no-nonsense. If he’d left town after voicing suspicions about the fire, it couldn’t be a coincidence.
“You think he knew something?” Emma asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Maybe. Or maybe he didn’t want to stick around to find out.”
Emma leaned against the wall, her pulse pounding in her ears. The fire had loomed over her life for so long, its shadows stretching into every corner of her existence. And now, the possibility that it wasn’t an accident—couldn’t be an accident—made her feel as though the ground beneath her had shifted.
Sally’s voice softened. “Just… be careful, Emma. This town doesn’t like people stirring up the past. And Ellis? He’s got his nose in everything.”
Emma nodded, her jaw tightening. “Thanks, Sally. I’ll be careful.”
As Sally extinguished her cigarette and slipped back inside, Emma lingered in the alley, staring at the cracked pavement beneath her boots. Her unease was a living thing, curling in her chest like smoke. But beneath it, a spark ignited—small but fierce.
The truth was out there, buried beneath years of silence and secrecy. And if no one else was willing to uncover it, she would.
---
That evening, Emma sat with her mother in the living room. The journal and photograph remained tucked away upstairs, their presence gnawing at the edge of her thoughts. Her mother seemed sharper tonight, her green eyes studying Emma with quiet intensity.
“You’ve got that look again,” her mother said, her voice tinged with amusement and concern.
“What look?” Emma asked, feigning innocence.
“The one that says you’re about to do something stubborn and probably dangerous.”
Emma forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her mother’s expression softened. “I know you, sweetheart. I know how much this house means to you. But some things are better left alone. The past isn’t always worth digging into.”
Emma’s chest tightened. “Mom, what do you know about the fire?”
Her mother’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, Emma thought she saw fear there. Then she shook her head and looked away. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
Emma opened her mouth to press further, but her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“Let it be, Emma. Focus on the house. On the future.”
As her mother’s words hung in the air, Emma clenched her fists tightly in her lap. Let it be. The past wasn’t done with her yet.
