(Malcolm)
Morning broke pale and cold, the kind of light that made Raven Hollow look like a photograph left too long in the sun. Malcolm waited outside the Velvet House, gloved hands jammed in his coat pockets, watching the frost lift from the porch rail.
Eden stepped out, scarf wound around her throat, eyes shadowed from another night without sleep. She held the burned letter in a plastic sleeve now—half protection, half ritual.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded. "If we wait any longer, I'll start imagining what it means instead of finding out."
They drove in silence to the archives, the truck's heater humming against the cold. Outside the window the hills rolled by, dotted with bare sycamores and the occasional barn sagging under the weight of years.
Malcolm thought about the line added to the letter—the fire was never meant to end us—and the way the blue light had flickered when she sang. It all felt like a pattern he almost understood, a language half-remembered.
The records building smelled of dust and lemon polish. The clerk, the same one as before, raised a brow. "Back again?"
Malcolm gave a thin smile. "Seems we're not finished."
This time they searched the marriage ledgers and property records. After an hour, Eden's quiet voice broke the silence. "Here."
She pointed to a faded entry:
Lydia Moore, music teacher. Charles Reed, builder. Residence: Hollow Lane.
Malcolm's chest tightened. Reed. His own surname.
Eeden looked at him, eyes wide. "You're related."
He swallowed. "Could be coincidence. Reed's not uncommon."
But he knew better. His grandfather had been born two years after the fire, name unspoken in family stories until now.
Beneath the entry was a date: February 14, 1947. And beside it, in another hand, the word missing.
"They were never found," she said softly.
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the pieces shifting. "The house was their home. The fire started there. And somehow, it never let them go."
(Eden)
They walked back out into the gray afternoon, each lost in thought. The air smelled faintly of chimney smoke; somewhere a church bell tolled noon.
"You okay?" she asked as they reached the truck.
He nodded slowly. "My family always said the Reeds came from this valley, but no one talked about before the fire. Maybe they couldn't."
She touched his arm lightly. "Then maybe that's why we're here—to give them back their voices."
Her words warmed something in him he hadn't known was cold.
Back at the Velvet House, they spread the documents across the piano top. Dates, initials, blueprints. Each line a breadcrumb into the past.
Eeden traced a finger over the blueprint of the house. "Look—this room, the parlor, it's drawn twice. Once solid, once faint."
Malcolm leaned closer. "Hidden wall."
They found it that evening behind the bookshelf, a narrow gap sealed with plaster. Inside, the faint outline of a doorway. He pried it open carefully, revealing a small alcove no bigger than a closet.
Dust motes spun in the flashlight beam. On the floor lay a wooden box carved with roses. Inside: a silver locket, a burned key, and a folded page of sheet music titled 'The Promise.'
Eeden lifted the paper gently. The notes were incomplete, ending mid-measure. "It's her handwriting. Lydia's."
Malcolm turned the locket over. Inside was a photograph of Lydia and Charles—his face hauntingly familiar, the same eyes, same half-smile.
"They built this house together," he said quietly. "And when it burned, it took both of them."
Eeden met his gaze. "Maybe the house kept the memory because someone still needed to remember."
They stood close in the narrow alcove, the air thick with dust and the weight of history. For a moment neither spoke.
Malcolm's voice was rough when he said, "I used to think love was something you build and walk away from when it cracks. But maybe it's what survives the fire."
Eeden smiled faintly. "Or what lights it."
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of rain again. The piano behind them gave a single, soft note—unplayed, but certain.
(Malcolm)
Later, as he left her at the porch, he looked back once more. The blue light flickered inside the window again, faint but steady, illuminating her silhouette at the piano.
He felt no fear now. Only recognition.
The house wasn't haunted by tragedy. It was haunted by a promise that hadn't been kept.
And somehow, he knew—this time, it might be.