The boot room was a sanctuary of memory. Shelves lined with generations of worn leather, the rich scent of cedar from the old closet mingling with traces of oil and earth. Meli’s father had built this space himself—hammering nails while humming old folk tunes, his laughter bouncing off the wooden beams.
She came here often when the house felt too big, too empty. Tonight, as rain pattered against the tin roof, she sorted through his things: a faded flannel shirt, a pocketknife with his initials etched into the handle. Grief rose sharp and sudden, stealing her breath.
Then came the footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Not on the creaky floorboards, but inside her—a rhythmic echo that matched the beating of her heart. She spun around, flashlight beam slicing through the shadows. Nothing. Yet the air felt charged, alive.
Recognition bloomed in her chest, warm and undeniable.
“You aren’t losing your mind,” Lyric whispered, the voice clearer now, laced with quiet amusement. “You’re learning to notice what has always been here.”
Meli’s hands shook as she set down the knife. “This is grief talking. Hallucinations. I read about this.”
“Or it’s the beginning of remembering,” Lyric replied gently. “Close your eyes. Feel the space around you.”
She did. And there—beyond the trees visible through the small window—soft lights appeared. Ethereal orbs pulsing with patient energy. They didn’t approach aggressively; they waited, as if respecting an invisible boundary.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. Not terror. Not confusion. A profound sense of being witnessed.
Chapter 2