It started with this letter.
Folded neatly in an envelope yellowed with age, it had no return address, only a name: Clara. No last name, no date. Just Clara. It was tucked inside a book at the secondhand shop on Linden Street, the kind of place where the shelves leaned like tired old men and the air smelled like forgotten stories.
Mira had only stopped in to escape the rain. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. But that book — a worn copy of Wuthering Heights — had practically fallen into her hands. And inside it, that letter.
She read it once. Then again.
“If you find this, it means you’re curious. Good. Curiosity is the only thing stronger than fear. Go to the house with the green door. Ask for what was left behind.”
Mira blinked. Was it a joke? A scavenger hunt? A forgotten note from a long-dead romantic?
She looked around the shop. The clerk was asleep behind the counter. Outside, the rain had turned to mist. She slipped the book into her bag — not stealing, she told herself, just borrowing — and stepped back into the street.
The house with the green door wasn’t hard to find. Linden Street had only seven houses, and only one had a green door. It was the kind of green that had once been bright but had faded into something softer, like moss or memory.
She knocked. Once. Twice.
No answer.
She tried the handle. It turned.
Inside, the air was still. Not dusty, not musty — just still. Like the house was holding its breath.
On the wall were photographs. Black and white. Faded. These faces stared out at her with eyes that seemed to know secrets. A woman in a long coat. A boy with a kite. A man holding a violin. None of them smiled.
Then she saw it: a small table with a box on top. Inside the box were objects — ordinary, but strange in context. A silver thimble. A broken watch. A key with no label. And beneath them, another note.
“Take only those things that call to you. Leave behind what you fear.”
Mira hesitated. The key shimmered slightly, as if it had been waiting. She took it.
The key didn’t fit any door in the house. But when she stepped outside, she noticed something new: a gate at the end of the garden, half-hidden by ivy. She hadn’t seen it before. Or maybe it hadn’t been there before.
She walked toward it. The key fit perfectly.
Beyond the gate was a path. Narrow, winding, lined with stones. Those stones were etched with names — some familiar, some foreign. She followed the path until it opened into a clearing.
In the center stood a bench. On the bench sat a woman.
“Clara?” Mira asked.
The woman smiled. “You found me.”
“What is this place?”
“It’s where stories go when they’re forgotten,” Clara said. “Where memories wait to be remembered.”
Mira sat beside her. The air was warm, but the trees whispered like autumn.
“You’re not the first,” Clara said. “But you’re braver than most.”
Mira looked down at the key in her hand. “This led me here.”
Clara nodded. “And now you must choose. Do you want to remember, or forget?”
“Remember what?”
Clara didn’t answer. Instead, she handed Mira a photograph. It was Mira, as a child, holding a kite. The same kite from the photo in the house.
“I don’t remember that,” Mira whispered.
“You will,” Clara said. “In time.”
They sat in silence. Then Clara stood.
“Take these,” she said, handing Mira a bundle wrapped in cloth. Inside were letters, photographs, and a small music box. “They’re yours.”
Mira opened the box. It played a tune she hadn’t heard in years — or had she?
She turned to ask Clara, but the bench was empty.
Only the wind remained.
