Morning came slowly, the pale light of dawn creeping through the curtains. Selene rubbed her temples, the lingering unease from the night before refusing to fade. She made her tea in silence, her gaze flickering to the drawer where the letters were now stored.


    She couldn’t go on like this, waiting for answers to fall into her lap. If she wanted to figure out who E was, she’d have to start somewhere.


    Her first thought was the attic. She hadn’t touched it since moving in, the dusty space serving as a storage room for things left behind by the previous owner.


    After finishing her tea, she pulled the ladder down and climbed into the attic. The air was cold and stale, the faint scent of mildew hanging in the air. Boxes and furniture were piled haphazardly, a graveyard of forgotten things.


    She began opening boxes, sifting through old photographs, yellowed newspapers, and bits of bric-a-brac. Most of it was unremarkable, the remnants of a life long past.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Then she found it.


    Tucked beneath a stack of faded quilts was a small leather-bound book, its cover cracked with age. Selene wiped off the dust and opened it, her heart skipping a beat as she realized what it was: a diary.


    The entries were dated decades ago, the handwriting slanted and deliberate. As she flipped through the pages, one entry caught her eye—a poem scrawled in the middle of an otherwise blank page:


    "Time is a thread, a spiral, a seam,


    Stitching the past to a whisper, a dream.


    What’s written today may echo tomorrow,


    A glimpse of joy, a shadow of sorrow."


    Selene’s chest tightened. The words felt eerily familiar, like something she’d heard before but couldn’t place.


    She read further, skimming the entries. Most were mundane, recounting the daily life of a woman who had once lived in this house. But as Selene turned the pages, the tone began to shift.


    One entry stood out:


    "I can hear it now, faint but persistent.


    The ticking of a clock that does not work.


    A voice that speaks without sound,


    Guiding me toward something I cannot name."


    Selene’s breath caught. The words mirrored her own experience—too closely to be a coincidence.


    Clutching the diary, she climbed back down from the attic, her mind racing. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was certain of one thing: she wasn’t the first person in this house to receive messages.


    And she might not be the last.