The basement smelled of rot and dust, the air damp with years of neglect. Astrid's steps echoed softly on the stone floor as she descended, her hand trailing against the rough wall for balance. Natalie had told her where to look, her voice low, almost hesitant, as though even speaking of Emberly's hidden things carried weight.
"There's a box. Old stuff. you used to keep it down there. Nobody touches it anymore."
The box wasn't hard to find. Wooden, swollen from moisture, its lid bowed and its iron clasp rusted. Astrid crouched, brushing a thick layer of dust from its surface. The air that escaped when she pried it open was stale, tinged with paper and mildew, and something faintly sweet—like perfume that had long since faded.
She sifted through it briefly—letters curled yellow with age, notebooks soft from damp, fabric scraps. Her fingers brushed against the cracked spine of a yearbook, but she snapped the lid shut before she could lose herself to its pages here. The basement felt too heavy, too close, as if Emberly's ghost pressed in with the walls.
She hooked her arms under the weight of the box and hauled it up the narrow stairs, her breath uneven, the wood biting into her palms. By the time she reached her room, her heart was pounding—not just from exertion, but from something sharper, a current of nerves she couldn't shake.
The room was silent when she shut the door behind her. Too silent. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish, the linen on the bed still sharp with starch. Here, unlike the basement, there was no dampness, no decay. Only wealth, sterile and unyielding. The contrast made the box at her feet seem out of place, like a piece of rot left in a pristine museum.
She lowered herself to the floor, legs folding beneath her, and pulled the box close. The wood scraped softly against the polished floor. She lifted the lid, slower this time, almost reverent.
The yearbook was the first thing she reached for. Thick. Heavy. She opened it, the pages stiff and brittle under her fingers. Faces stared back at her, sepia with time, smiles frozen mid-laughter.
Kyle's photo caught her off guard.
A younger version of him, his hair a little longer, his smile crooked, the sharp lines of adulthood not yet etched into his face. Astrid let out a small chuckle, the sound breaking the stillness of the room. It was strange, almost disarming, to see him like that, unarmored, almost ordinary.
Her eyes slid to Emberly's picture. Perfect. Composed. Even in youth, her beauty demanded attention. And yet Astrid thought she could see it, the calculation behind the smile, the sharpness hidden in the tilt of her eyes.
And then, Matthew.
Her breath stalled. His face was all charm: golden hair, eyes that drew light, a grin that carried promise. She understood immediately why Emberly had clung to him, why his absence had torn holes in her.
She snapped the book closed. The sound cracked in the silence, too loud.
Digging deeper, her fingers caught on another photo, glossy but dulled with time. She lifted it to the light.
Three figures. Emberly. Kyle. Matthew. Together. Laughing. Arms loose around shoulders, smiles genuine. Friends.
Astrid's stomach twisted. If Emberly had loved Matthew, why had she ended up with Kyle? And if she had carried Matthew in her heart, how had she let herself become Kyle's wife?
Just then her phone rang. The shrill sound shattered the hush of the room, sharp enough to make her nearly drop the photograph in her hand. She fumbled, her dusty fingers smudging the screen before she pressed it to her ear.
"Morning, menace."
Her mother's voice—sharp, mocking—slid down the line like a blade across her skin.
Astrid's chest tightened. Not Emberly's mother. Mine.
"I heard people with names starting with E are bound to have bad luck today. Who am I kidding? You don't need to worry. You already are bad luck."
Astrid sat very still, the photograph of Emberly, Kyle, and Matthew still lying on the bed beside her, their frozen smiles watching her like ghosts. She let a long breath leave her lungs before she spoke. "Is that the first thing you say to your own daughter?"
"What did you expect me to say?" Her mother's laugh was brittle, hollow, a sound that had never carried warmth. "'Morning, beautiful, hope you're enjoying your day?' That's for mothers with real daughters. Not some mechanical error from the baby factory."
Astrid's throat ached. She ran her thumb along the edge of the wooden box, the splinter biting into her skin grounding her. "Why did you call?"
"You're really going to that engagement?"
Her hand froze on the lid of the box. "…How do you know?"
"It's online. Guest lists are public if you know where to look," her mother said, smug, victorious, like she had caught Astrid in a crime.
Astrid dragged her laptop onto her lap, her hands trembling as she typed. When the site loaded, the words leapt out at her: Emberly Moonstone.
Below, the comments. Each one a dagger dipped in poison. Cruel jokes, mocking laughter, strangers tearing her apart without ever knowing her.
Her vision blurred. She closed the laptop quickly, as though shutting the lid could seal away the venom. "I didn't know it could be that bad," she whispered, almost to herself.
Her mother's laugh crackled through the phone. "I'll ask God if He didn't make a mistake creating you."
The words hit harder than she wanted to admit. They always did. Astrid pressed the heel of her hand against her chest, willing her breath steady. She had grown numb to cruelty, or at least she thought she had—but sometimes, like now, the words found their way through old cracks and lodged deep.
Her mother's voice droned on, a tirade of disapproval, shame, condemnation. But Astrid barely heard it. She let the noise fade to static as she returned her hands to the box, digging deeper, needing an anchor that wasn't venom.
Her fingers brushed something small and solid. Smooth. Leather. She pulled it free.
A diary.
Her pulse stumbled. The edges were frayed, the cover soft with use. When she touched it, dust clung to her skin, but beneath it was the faintest scent of old ink, of secrets pressed between pages.
"I found it," she breathed before she realized the words had escaped her lips.
"Found what? Are you even listening to me?" her mother snapped.
Astrid ignored her. The tirade was swelling again, familiar as breathing. She could almost predict each word before it came. Panic fluttered in her chest; she needed an escape.
Her eyes darted to Kayden, who lingered in the doorway, curious. She beckoned him quickly, pressing the phone into his small hands. "Your grandmother wants to talk to you," she lied softly.
His face lit up. He left, chattering into the receiver, leaving Astrid alone in the silence of her room.
She turned the diary over in her hands. The weight of it was more than paper and leather. It was history. Memory. The voice of the woman whose skin she now wore.
Her heart pounded, slow and steady, as though it, too, understood the threshold she was about to cross.
This was no longer about pretending. This was about knowing.
The diary lay heavy in her lap, and Astrid realized her hands were shaking, not with fear, but with something closer to hunger.
her questions pressed heavy against her chest.