The wind did not stop when Sana turned to run.
It followed her.
Through the rusted gate of the garden, past the cracked fountain, and into the back hall of Thornwick Estate, where the walls didn't creak—they sighed.
As she passed through the foyer, the candlelight dimmed, though no wind touched the flames. The doors didn't slam. They waited. They watched.
Sana's boots echoed against the marble. Her breath caught halfway up the stairs. Behind her, nothing moved.
And yet—
The moment she reached the top, the portrait of the girl in the green ribbon had fallen from its place in the hall.
Shattered frame. Shattered glass.
But the photograph remained whole.
And in it, the girl's face had turned.
---
She told no one.
That morning, Catherine came into their shared room with an armful of folded linens and a mouthful of questions.
"What's going on with you lately?"
"I don't know."
"You're paler. Quieter. And you keep going out at night."
"I'm not."
"You are."
Sana didn't argue. She didn't know how.
The garden was still locked when she tried again. The locket remained cold. And yet, every night, the girl reappeared.
Sometimes digging. Sometimes weeping. Once, standing directly beneath the window with her hands outstretched.
Sana couldn't tell if she was being haunted, or summoned.
---
Jacob kept to his office more often now. Books stacked by the fireplace. Letters half-written. A ledger full of names.
Mary wandered the west wing as if searching for something she couldn't name. She rarely spoke of the past.
Once, Sana found her pressing her hand to the wall.
"It's warmer here," she said. "Like a heartbeat."
Sana pressed her palm to the same spot.
It was warm.
Too warm.
---
The twins began talking in their sleep.
First, just mumbles.
Then sentences.
Then names.
"Elara... Elara, don't go into the hall."
"Don't forget what she did."
"The whisperer is under the stairs."
Catherine recorded them. Played the tape back for Sana in the morning.
"You think it's a joke?"
Sana shook her head.
"I think they're remembering things they never lived."
---
The fourth night, Sana found herself standing at the top of the western staircase.
She had no memory of walking there.
The hallway stretched out in front of her—narrower than before. Walls closer. Lamps dim.
One door at the end stood open. Just a crack.
She moved toward it slowly, her hand trailing along the wall. The air thickened. Her breathing slowed.
Inside the room, everything was covered in sheets. Furniture-shaped ghosts. A mirror leaned against the far wall.
The locket pulsed in her hand.
She stepped forward.
Pulled the sheet from the mirror.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Except it wasn't her.
Same face. Same eyes. But not her.
The reflection blinked before she did.
The reflection mouthed a word:
"Remember."
Sana stepped back.
And the mirror cracked from corner to corner.
---
Downstairs, Christopher had begun building things from blocks. Tall towers. Narrow doorways.
"They're the halls," he told her.
"What halls?"
"The ones the house hides when you're looking. But shows when you forget."
Sana sat beside him.
He pointed to a small square room in the center.
"That's where she's waiting."
"Who?"
"The one with the green ribbon."
---
At night, Sana stopped sleeping. She walked.
The house shifted for her. Walls that once led nowhere now opened into unfamiliar rooms. Paintings hung in places they hadn't before. Clocks ticked backward.
She reached the northwest study again.
The desk was uncovered now.
And on it lay a journal.
The handwriting inside was elegant. Slanted. Firm.
Elara Thornwick.
Page after page of notes, sketches, dreams.
"I hear them in the walls."
"She has my face."
"If I write my name, I might forget hers."
"I buried it under the fountain. Beneath the black stone. Beneath the memory."
Sana traced the ink with her finger.
She turned the page.
A drawing.
Not of the house.
Of her.
Exactly her. Down to the scar above her eyebrow.
Drawn in a hand that had never seen her.
Drawn decades ago.
---
When she told Jacob, he didn't act surprised.
He closed the study door behind her.
"There were rumors," he said. "About Elara. That she dabbled in rites. That she believed memory could pass through blood. That she left pieces of herself behind."
"What do you believe?" Sana asked.
"I believe she found a way to stay."
Sana looked down. "In me?"
"In the house."
Jacob put a hand on her shoulder. "But you woke her."
---
The next night, Sana returned to the garden.
The gate opened for her.
The fountain stood waiting.
She dropped to her knees. Dug where Elara had dug.
Her fingers struck stone.
She brushed it clean.
A black tile. Smooth. Cold.
Beneath it, a box.
Inside—
Hair.
A ribbon.
And a name, carved on a locket just like hers:
Sana.