Episode 2: A House Full of Ghosts
By Elena Falk
Some people think ghosts are spirits.
I think they're memories.
They live in the corners of this house—in creaking floorboards, in the chipped blue mug Clara used to steal from me, in the smell of vanilla our mother left behind in the linen closet. They don't scream. They whisper. Constantly.
I didn't sleep well.
The air felt heavier with Clara in the house, like it was filled with everything we hadn't said. I could hear her footsteps early in the morning. Soft. Careful. Like she didn't want to wake the past.
At 7:00 a.m., I made coffee. Strong. Black. Just like every morning since I took over this house alone.
She came into the kitchen wearing one of my old sweatshirts. I pretended not to notice.
"Morning," she said gently.
"Morning," I answered, without looking up from the kettle.
She opened the fridge. Paused. "Do you still buy raspberry jam?"
I didn't answer. She found the jar anyway.
We sat in silence while she buttered toast like nothing had changed. Like we were two normal sisters having a normal breakfast.
"I walked past Mom's room last night," she said suddenly.
I stiffened.
"I didn't go in," she added quickly. "I just… it looked the same."
"It is."
"Elena, don't you ever think about changing something? Painting the walls. Throwing out old things?"
I stared at her.
"I don't change things that still work," I said.
She flinched, just barely. But I saw it.
After breakfast, I went to the study. Work was the only thing that helped me breathe. The only thing that didn't ask questions.
Clara stayed in the living room, flipping through old photo albums. I knew exactly which ones she'd find. The birthdays. The snowmen. The family vacations before everything went wrong.
She would find the gap eventually—the year we stopped taking pictures. The space where silence began.
Around noon, she knocked on the door of the study.
"I was thinking," she began, hesitant, "maybe we could go into town today? The market is still open on Saturdays, right?"
I didn't want to.
But I said yes.
Maybe I just wanted to see if the town looked different with her by my side again.
The streets of Arkenfjord hadn't changed much. The bakery still sold burnt coffee and dry scones. The flower shop was run by Mrs. Vetter, who never forgot a face—or a rumor.
Clara bought tulips. Yellow ones. Our mother's favorite.
As we walked, she smiled at people. Strangers smiled back. She always had that gift. The one that made people open up. The one I lost somewhere along the way.
"Elena," she said as we reached the square, "do you ever feel like this town is holding its breath?"
I looked around.
"No," I replied. "I think it just got used to silence."
We sat on a bench, watching people pass.
"You were angry when I left," Clara said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"I was angry too. But more than that, I was scared. I didn't know how to stay after Mom died."
"So you ran."
She nodded. "And you stayed. Like always."
I didn't answer.
"I used to think you were so strong," she whispered. "Now I think you were just trying not to fall apart."
That hit harder than I expected.
I looked at her—really looked. She wasn't a girl anymore. Neither was I.
"I'm not angry that you left," I said slowly. "I'm angry that you didn't come back sooner."
Her eyes filled with tears. "I didn't know if I was still welcome."
"You were. But that doesn't mean it'll be easy."
"I know," she said. "But I'm here now."
The tulips sat between us like a fragile peace offering.
Maybe that's what healing looks like—not sudden, not dramatic, just two people sitting on a cold bench, finally telling the truth.