The connection between Lina and Anna was more than memory—it was a tether, pulling them through the veils of time like two dancers bound by the same melody.
Each night, when Lina closed her eyes, she found herself slipping into Anna's world—watching through her eyes, feeling her fears, her hopes, her pain.
But it was never just observation.
Anna's presence whispered guidance.
A flicker of light in the dark.
A steadying hand when the house shifted too quickly.
One evening, Lina awoke to a soft tapping at her bedroom window.
Outside, rain whispered against the glass.
She drew back the curtain.
A small envelope fluttered onto the sill.
Inside, a note written in Anna's hand:
"Trust the silence between the sounds.
There is a door you cannot see—yet.
It will open when the time is right."
Lina clutched the paper, heart pounding.
She began searching the house with new eyes.
Listening to the silence not as absence—but as presence.
Meanwhile, Lina's mother, Emma, was starting to feel the house's pull in ways she couldn't explain.
Doors that creaked open on their own.
Soft whispers when she was alone.
A sudden chill that settled beneath her skin.
She tried to ignore it.
But one night, she heard a lullaby—faint and fractured—coming from the attic.
The melody stirred something buried deep inside her memory.
Emma's dreams grew restless.
Visions of a girl with dark eyes, whispering words she almost understood.
She woke one morning with a single phrase on her lips:
"Protect her."
The house was weaving their lives tighter.
Past and present colliding.
A legacy not just of silence, but of listening, guarding, and choosing.