Selene sat at her kitchen table, the diary spread open before her. The words on its pages seemed to thrum with a life of their own, pulling her deeper into its mysteries. She’d spent the past hour poring over the entries, searching for connections.


    The author of the diary, a woman named Lydia Caldwell, had lived in the cottage over fifty years ago. Most of her entries were ordinary: reflections on her garden, musings on the weather, snippets of poems. But scattered throughout were passages that made Selene’s skin crawl.


    "The letters appeared again today.


    No postmark, no return address.


    Just my name, written in a hand too elegant to belong to anyone I know."


    Selene’s fingers tightened on the edge of the diary. The parallels to her own experience were undeniable.


    As she continued reading, the entries grew stranger. Lydia described hearing faint whispers at night, feeling watched, and sensing that time itself had begun to shift around her.


    "The clock ticks when it should not,


    The shadows move though the wind is still.


    And the letters—


    They know me in ways no one else can."


    Selene closed the diary, her mind racing. Lydia’s words mirrored her own experiences too closely to be coincidence. Was it possible that the same force haunting her now had haunted Lydia decades ago? And if so, why?


    She flipped back to the poem she’d found earlier:


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it."Time is a thread, a spiral, a seam…"


    The words repeated in her mind like a mantra. A seam implied something stitched together—fragile, imperfect. Was that what was happening here? Had time somehow unraveled in this house, leaving her and Lydia caught in the loose threads?


    The faint chime of the clock pulled Selene from her thoughts. She turned to stare at it, its once-broken hands now ticking steadily. A chill ran down her spine.


    That afternoon, Selene decided to do something she hadn’t done in months: leave the house for answers. She grabbed her notebook, tucked the diary under her arm, and headed into town.


    Her first stop was the library, hoping Edith might know more about Lydia Caldwell.


    Edith greeted her warmly, but her smile faded when Selene placed the diary on the counter. “Where did you find this?”


    “In the attic,” Selene said, her voice low. “It belonged to Lydia Caldwell. She lived in the cottage before me.”


    Edith’s expression turned somber. “Lydia… yes, I remember hearing about her when I was a girl. She was a poet, wasn’t she?”


    Selene nodded. “She left behind this diary. It’s… strange. She talks about things that don’t make sense—letters appearing out of nowhere, a clock that ticks when it shouldn’t.”


    Edith’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she leaned closer. “Did you know Lydia disappeared?”


    Selene froze. “Disappeared?”


    “Yes,” Edith said. “It was all anyone could talk about back then. She was seen walking into the woods one evening and never came back. They searched for weeks but found no trace of her.”


    Selene’s stomach churned. “Did she say anything before she left?”


    Edith shook her head. “Not that anyone knows of. She kept to herself, much like you do.”


    Selene’s fingers brushed over the diary’s cover. The whispers, the clock, the letters—it was all connected to Lydia somehow.


    “Thank you, Edith,” Selene said softly, gathering the diary and notebook. “I think I need to read more.”


    Edith hesitated, her brow furrowing. “Selene, if this is stirring up trouble, maybe you should let it rest. Sometimes, the past is best left where it belongs.”


    But Selene wasn’t convinced the past was staying in its place.