(Eden)
The house felt different in the morning. Warmer, softer, as though the air itself had exhaled. The piano no longer hummed with that low ache it used to carry; instead, silence stretched through the rooms like sunlight—quiet, golden, forgiving.
Eden stood barefoot on the rug, tracing her fingers across the piano lid. The sheet music lay open again, the new notes still glistening faintly, as though freshly inked.
She played the final phrase. The melody resolved perfectly, simple and complete. When the last note faded, she felt something ease deep inside her chest—like an old sadness she hadn't known she'd been carrying had finally loosened its grip.
Malcolm entered quietly, mug of coffee in hand. "You've been playing that same line for an hour," he said, half a smile in his voice.
She turned to him. "It feels… alive now."
He came closer, the scent of sawdust and rain clinging to him. His gaze lingered on her face—not the way most people looked, but as if he was memorizing light.
"The house hasn't creaked once since sunrise," he said. "That's a first."
"Maybe it's resting," she said softly. "Or maybe they are."
He nodded, setting his coffee down. The locket glinted against his shirt, still on the chain she'd insisted he wear. She couldn't stop looking at it; it felt like a promise they both now carried.
Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the sky washed clean. Through the tall windows, Raven Hollow shimmered under a pale winter sun. Everything looked the same—and yet, not at all.
Eden went to the window. "When I was little," she said, "my mother used to say songs have memories. That every melody we write is a kind of confession we don't know we're making."
Malcolm came to stand beside her. "Then maybe this one confessed more than it meant to."
She turned toward him. "Do you ever wonder if what happened here wasn't an accident?"
He frowned slightly. "You mean the fire?"
"I keep seeing it when I close my eyes. The light… it wasn't wild. It was blue."
He stared at her, remembering the glow that had appeared when she sang. "You think someone caused it?"
"I think someone tried to stop it—and failed."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The clock ticked softly in the corner.
Finally he said, "If that's true, then the answer isn't just in the house. It's in the town. Someone still remembers."
She nodded, fingers curling at her sides. "Then we find them."
That afternoon, they walked into town together. People noticed them now—two strangers who didn't quite fit but somehow belonged. The shopkeeper at the general store nodded politely, then hesitated when Eden mentioned the 1947 fire.
"You'd best ask Old Mrs. Caldwell," he said. "She was a girl back then. Lives up on Juniper Lane. Keeps to herself."
They found her small house near the edge of the woods. The woman was nearly ninety, skin fine as parchment, eyes sharp as glass.
"You're the ones living at the Reed place," she said as soon as they introduced themselves. "I wondered when someone brave—or foolish—would move in again."
Malcolm smiled faintly. "Maybe both."
Mrs. Caldwell studied them. "That house remembers things. Not all of them kind. The fire didn't start the way the papers said. Charles Reed was accused of wiring the place wrong, but it wasn't him. Folks needed a scapegoat."
"Then who?" Eden asked.
The old woman's gaze drifted toward the window. "Back then, the town had rules. Lydia Moore was a colored woman teaching at the school. Charles Reed was white. People didn't like what they couldn't name. One night someone poured kerosene under the porch. By the time anyone got there, it was too late."
Eden's breath caught. "They were murdered."
The old woman's voice softened. "Maybe. But some fires don't kill everything. Some things—love, guilt, memory—they just smolder until someone's brave enough to look."
She reached out and touched Eden's hand. "If the house has started singing again, child, it means it's time to listen."
They drove back in silence. Twilight bled across the hills.
When they reached the Velvet House, the first stars were rising. Malcolm stopped before unlocking the door, his voice low. "You okay?"
Eden nodded. "I just keep thinking—Lydia sang because she had to. I think she believed the song would keep her alive, even if the world didn't."
He looked at her for a long time, then said quietly, "And maybe it did."
She met his eyes. "You really believe that?"
"I do now."
Inside, the house was warm again. The piano waited in its corner, the candle already lit. Eden touched the keys once more, and the melody that came wasn't Lydia's anymore—it was hers.
Malcolm stood behind her, silent, a steady presence in the dim light. For the first time since she'd arrived, she didn't feel like a visitor.
Outside, the river whispered below the hill, carrying their song somewhere it had always meant to go.