Whispers of the Past

History had always fascinated Amelia Greenwood. A restoration specialist, she had been a historian who spent years in the painstaking act of preserving whatever relics the past had to give, unraveling all mysteries written on yellowed parchment or in ink-smudged diaries. Her life was orderly, quiet, solitary, and just the way she wanted it. She was a smart, attractive and curious lady, always wanting to uncover secrets to deep level of things. But the chance to work on the restoration of Ashgrove Manor, a long-abandoned estate nestled deep in the countryside, beckoned.

It was a manor said to be haunted, yet not by ghosts but by secrets. For over a hundred years, it had stood silent at the mercy of time, its great halls forgotten. But the moment Amelia stepped through the heavy oak doors for the very first time in her life, she knew then-an undeniably sure sense resting its wait upon her, a house with a story to tell, ohh what a mystery case she was on and she most definitely liked it that's for sure.

Her task was enviably plain and simple: to catalog, restore, and preserve any historical documents, letters, or journals left behind from the previous occupants. The mansion was passed down through generations of a high-ranking aristocratic family but had been abandoned abruptly in the late 1800s. Whatever the reasons were, the last known inhabitants included none other than Lady Eliza Montgomery and her father, Lord Charles Montgomery, but the reasons behind their sudden disappearance remained shrouded in mystery.

Amelia had spent her first week working her way with great care through the dusty rooms, forgotten chambers, and unleashing bits of the past: old ledgers, personal journals, and records. It wasn't until the second week-in what at one time had served as a drawing room-that she made her most important discovery. She found them behind a loose panel in the wall, bound in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs: a bundle of letters tied together with a faded blue ribbon.

The script was in beautiful, ink-faded-some-yet-still-readable fashion. They were a woman's, Eliza's, love letters to some man known only as "A." Amelia's breath had caught in her throat as she started reading; her heart pounding with each word.

"My Dearest A,

Cruel world, standing between us. How I ache for those nights when, beneath the star-filled sky, we would meet and whisper promises to the moon above. But this house is my prison, and I fear that my father does suspect. He will do anything in his power to keep us apart. All I can pray for is that someday these chains shall set us free.

Amelia continued reading each letter more heartbreaking than the last. The words of Eliza were full of passion, longing, and despair. Their love was not meant to be, it seemed, and something-or rather, someone-was determined to keep them apart. But the letters did not bring out who "A" was or what finally happened to the star-crossed lovers. It just ended without closure, no happy ending. The last letter alone was closed on a promise that they should meet again, once more.

Questions swarmed Amelia's mind: Who was "A"? And why had Eliza's love story been tucked away, forgotten for over a century?

The long shadows danced across the room through the large windows as the sun set, and Amelia felt the start of a chill crawling up her spine. Amelia wasn't generally into the supernatural; this house seemed uneasy to her. It was thick in the air with memories, it seemed-even the walls watched and waited for her to uncover their secrets.