October 12th

The house is quiet today. The kind of quiet that settles into the bones of old wood and stone. I made pancakes this morning, the way Dad likes them—crispy at the edges. I set a plate for him at the head of the table, and one for Mom by the window where the light catches her coffee just right. We talked about the autumn leaves. Mom said the maples by the eastern path are turning a divine shade of scarlet. Dad said they’d need raking soon, and he’d get to it after he finished the chapter of his book. He’s been reading the same novel for months now, always “just one more chapter.”

I can hear them, you know. Their voices. Not echoes, not memories. Real. Solid. Mom’s laugh is a soft chime. Dad’s hum is a low, steady rumble from his study. The house is full of them. It has to be. Otherwise, the silence of this forest would swallow me whole.

But something’s… off. It started small. A layer of dust on Dad’s favorite armchair that wasn’t there yesterday. This morning, I went to put away the pancake syrup and found the bottle in the cupboard, unopened, the seal still intact. Yet I’d swear I’d poured from it. The groceries I order online are always left at the iron gate. I brought in the box yesterday. Tinned soup, pasta, tea. Enough for one. The receipt said: “Order for: Caroline Reed.” Singular.

I shook the thought away. Of course it’s for one. I’m just doing the shopping. Mom and Dad… they’re recovering. In their rooms. They’re tired. The accident was bad, the doctors said they needed rest. Quiet. No visitors.

October 14th

I found one of Mom’s scarves today. The blue silk one with the little silver birds. It was in the back of the hall closet, wrapped in a mothball-scented sheet of tissue paper. At the bottom of the box was a card. My own handwriting. “For Mom, with love. A birthday she’ll never see.” The date was from six months ago.

My breath left me. I shoved the box back, slammed the closet door. A hallucination. Stress. I went to the kitchen. Mom was there, by the sink, looking out at the forest. “There’s a deer family at the edge of the clearing, darling,” she said without turning. Her voice was so clear.
“I saw them,” I whispered, my heart a frantic bird in my chest. She smiled, then faded, like smoke in a sunbeam.

October 17th

Wilbur came today. Wilbur, from the farmhouse a mile down the lonely road. He’s a few years older than me, kind-faced, with gentle eyes that always seem a little sad when he looks at me. He brings eggs sometimes, or a jar of his mother’s honey. Today it was honey.
“Checking in,” he said, stomping his boots on the porch. “Mom says the winter’s gonna be a hard one.” He peered past me into the shadowy hall. “How… how are you holding up, Caroline? Really?”

“I’m fine,” I said, too quickly. “Mom’s resting. Dad’s reading. They send their regards.”
The sentence, now spoken to someone else, felt brittle as old glass.

Wilbur didn’t step in. He just looked at me, and the pity in his eyes was a physical weight. “Caroline,” he said, his voice terribly soft. “Can I come in? There’s… there’s something we need to talk about.”
A cold dread, deeper than the forest chill, seeped into me. “We’re busy,” I said, starting to close the door.
“Caroline, please.” He put a hand on the door. Not forceful, but firm. “It’s about your parents.”

I let him in. The house felt different with him inside—smaller, realer. The dust motes dancing in the air seemed accusing. We sat in the parlor. From the study, I could hear the faint, familiar scratch of Dad’s pen.
“Listen,” Wilbur began, fidgeting with the rim of his hat. “My mom… she was at the community council meeting. They were talking about the old Reed place. This house.