The attic was quieter now. Abeni sat cross-legged on the creaking floorboards, the journal open beside her, the letter unfolded in her lap. The ink had faded, but the words still pulsed with urgency.
"To the one who finds this: the stars remember what we forget."
She read it again, whispering the line like a spell. Her grandmother's handwriting was unmistakable—but the date was wrong. It was dated twenty years before Abeni was born, and signed with a name she didn't recognise: E.O.
She flipped through the journal, fingers trembling. The entries shifted tone—less about daily life, more cryptic. Mentions of "the mirror sky," "the signal tower," and "the pact made under Orion."
Abeni's heart thudded. She remembered the old radio tower on the hill behind the village, long abandoned, swallowed by vines and silence. Her grandmother used to warn her away from it, calling it "a place where echoes lie."
But now, the journal pointed there. And the letter—its final line was a set of coordinates.
She stood, brushing dust from her jeans. The sun filtered through the attic window, casting golden beams across the floor. Abeni tucked the letter into her satchel, grabbed a flashlight, and descended the stairs.
She didn't know what she'd find at the tower. But something told her the sky had been waiting.