“I do.”
My voice leaves no room for argument, and she knows better than to push it. The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing at all. Not really. All I know is I can’t stop doing it…whatever this is with the woman in the house behind me. Despite every instinct telling me not to, she’s become something important to me. Something I never allowed myself to have until now, and I’m too far gone to walk away. The fact that my sister has somehow managed to see straight through me is irritating enough. I can do without her commentary.
I clear my throat, shoving the thought back where it belongs.
“What do you want, Katia?”
Whatever remained of the glint in her eyes vanishes, whatever she had come to say suddenly outweighs whatever she thinks I’ve got going on here. She reaches behind her, slipping a hand into the pocket of her jeans before pulling free a thick crimson envelope.
The color alone unsettles me.
She turns it over once between her gloved fingers, tapping it against her hand as she stares at it for a brief moment, as though debating whether she should hand it to me at all. Then, she closes the distance between us, grips hold of my hand until I’m forced to remove it from my pocket, then places the envelope into my palm. My brows knit together as I stare down at my sister, wrapping my fingers around it and not letting go.
“What is it, Kate?”
Her eye twitches at the name, the tiny betrayal the only sign she hates hearing it from me.
“You’re gonna want to read it when you’re alone.”
There are no signs of the humorous woman I grew up with. There’s only the strange heaviness thick in the air between us, pressing against my ribs until breathing feels like more effort than it should.
“What is it?” I almost growl the words, but she just shakes her head. If my sister is standing here looking this rattled. Like she’d seen a fucking ghost, whatever is in this envelope is going to change my life, I just know it, and judging by the look on Katia’s face, she knows it too.
The wind whispers through the forest, stirring the snow gathered along the cemetery fence, carrying with it the familiar silence this place has always offered me. Today, it feels different. Heavier. Katia’s eyes soften, and without another word, she stepsforward, rising onto the tips of her boots before pressing a gentle kiss against my cheek. A habit she’d never quite grown out of.
“Love you,” she whispers, before turning around and heading down the path toward her truck.
I watch her climb inside, the driver’s door slamming shut with a hollow thud that echoes through the clearing. The engine rumbles to life a second later, the headlights sweeping briefly across the graves before the truck slowly turns, disappearing between the towering pines until the forest swallows both the vehicle and the sound of it.
The envelope suddenly feels heavy in my hands, its sharp corners digging into my palm. Whatever’s inside can wait. Today has been a good day, and good days are few and far between in my line of work. I’m not ready to ruin it. The old floorboards groan softly beneath my boots as I step inside, the warmth of the house chasing away the bite of winter still clinging to my skin. I close the door behind me without thinking, the latch clicking quietly into place.
Silence.
Then…music?
It drifts through the house delicately, I almost mistake it for the wind weaving itself through the trees outside. A melody carried on a language I don’t speak, soft enough to be mistaken for a prayer.
French.
I follow it without meaning to.
The living room comes into view, bathed in the glow spilling through the tall windows. Dust dances lazily through the afternoon light, each tiny particle suspended in the air like forgotten souls refusing to settle.
She sits before the old floor-length mirror. The carved golden frame has stood in this house longer than I have, its gold leaves worn soft by time, delicate filigree climbing around the edges in twisting vines and angels whose faces have faded beneath years of dust. I’d passed it everyday without seeing it. Until now. Now it holds the only reflection that matters.
My little ghost.
She hadn’t noticed me.
She sits with her back to me, her reflection staring quietly into the glass as though she’s searching for someone on the other side of it. The brush in her hand glides through the length of her hair until it gleams like spun onyx and midnight. The words leave her so quietly they’re almost carried away by her own breathing, each verse rolling effortlessly into the next as though she’d known them her entire life.
I don’t understand a single word.
Yet something about the cadence pulls at a memory.
Familiar.
Haunting.
