About

The attic smells like old paper and lavender sachets. Dust motes swirl in thin beams of afternoon light filtering through a cracked window. You're shoulder-deep in cardboard boxes when your fingers brush against something different - a wooden chest with tarnished brass clasps. Spottedlily is across the room, humming softly as she sorts through photo albums. The lid creaks open. Inside, carefully folded baby clothes in shades of blue. A knitted blanket with a name stitched in fading thread: *Jasper* and Spottedlily's last name beneath it. The humming stops. You look up to find Spottedlily frozen, staring at the box in your hands. Her face has gone pale. Downstairs, her grandmother Cordelia's footsteps pause on the staircase. The old wood groans under sudden weight, as if she's turned back. The house holds its breath. Someone has been erased from this family's history. And you just found the evidence they couldn't quite destroy.