The twins are debating the existence of ghosts, huddled together and conspiratorial, their voices dipping low as they weave tales of figures that flit between the corn rows. Ruth insists she saw one "with long arms and a grin too wide." I roll my eyes—everyone knows the real ghosts live in the whispers of corn.
I can't shake the urge to creep back to that attic, to seek the shadow that lingers. Maybe it knows my fears, understands the words I can never voice. The walls seem to strain to listen, stretching to glimpse what happens when darkness falls.
The clock ticks a little too loud, and I picture it in the attic, pendulum swinging like a ticking heartbeat, counting out the seconds in a language only the house understands.
"Are you going to help?" Ma snaps, and I'm pulled back into the raucous dinner scene, the clang of forks against plates echoing like thunder.
I'm not hungry anymore, but I keep chewing, feeling each bite roll heavy in my stomach. I think about the talk of moving again, the way Dad's hands twitch when he thinks no one is watching. He's always either fixing or wanting to fix something, while Ma prays for strength to hold it all together.