Fahad Content

The Weight of Forgotten Things

The house on Sycamore Lane wasn’t the kind of place you’d notice unless you were looking for it. Tucked behind a curtain of overgrown willow trees, its peeling paint and sagging porch made it seem like it was trying to disappear. Clara hadn’t meant to find it. She’d been wandering, as she often did when the world felt too heavy, her boots crunching through the autumn leaves that blanketed the outskirts of her small town. But something about the house—its silence, maybe, or the way the windows seemed to watch her—drew her closer.