Whispers in the Rain.
Rain had grown heavier by the time Charlotte stepped outside. Droplets pelted the crooked streets of Grey Hollow, turning the cobblestones slick and reflective. Each puddle mirrored houses that seemed subtly wrong—skewed, elongated, or missing windows she remembered perfectly. The fog had thickened, smothering the familiar landmarks in a ghostly haze.
She walked toward the park where she and Eliza had spent countless afternoons. Every step felt wrong, as if the ground itself resisted her presence. The benches were warped; the swing set leaned unnaturally; a carousel horse, frozen mid-motion, stared at her with hollow eyes.
A scarf caught in the rain—a pattern unmistakably Eliza's. Charlotte's heart clenched. She reached for it, but as her fingers brushed the fabric, it felt impossibly heavy, as though carrying the weight of forgotten memories.
A voice—faint, almost lost in the patter of rain—whispered her name again: "Charlotte… Charlotte…" She looked around; the park was empty, save for the fog and the twisted remnants of familiar play structures. Her mind flinched, struggling to anchor reality.
Suddenly, fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: laughter, a shared secret, a hand held briefly before something went wrong. Each memory was distorted, overlapping with moments that could not have occurred. Charlotte staggered backward, the rain cold against her skin, soaking her hair and clothes, but the chill was nothing compared to the unease curling in her chest.
A shadow moved between the trees—fleeting, almost human. She tried to follow it, but the fog twisted, and the figure vanished. Then a small puddle reflected not her own face, but Eliza's, smiling faintly before the image rippled and disappeared.
Charlotte stumbled to the edge of the park, dripping and shaken. She realized the town was not just strange—it was interacting with her memories. Every step, every object, every whispered phrase seemed designed to remind her of what had been lost and what had been hidden.
The mantra echoed softly in her mind: Nothing happened here. But the fragments of Eliza she had glimpsed told a different story. The town, the house, even the rain itself, were all complicit in a memory that refused to die, and Charlotte knew she had to confront it if she ever wanted clarity.
As she turned to head home, she noticed a small figure at the far end of the street, watching from under the brim of a rain-soaked hat. Her pulse quickened. Was it Eliza? Or merely a trick of the town, another fragment meant to draw her further into the puzzle?