What surprised her most was the notebook at the very bottom of one box. Just her name on the cover. Inside were pages of sketches. Drawings of the house. Of the garden. Of her. Not good drawings, shaky lines, uneven shading, but careful ones. Thoughtful. There was a note under one: “Age 12. Elise fell asleep outside again. I didn’t wake her. She looks peaceful.”
She ran her fingers over the pencil lines. Her throat ached. He’d seen her. He just never told her he was looking. That night, she didn’t dream. When she woke, the house felt quiet, not empty, but no longer resisting her. She stood in the hallway outside the attic, the door still hanging open, the smell of dust and time drifting down the stairs.