Whispers of the Past (Chapter 01)

Maya stood on the porch of the house she left ten years before. The house she promised herself she would never again set foot in. The house where memories she never wanted to see again were packed away in dusty corners and empty rooms.

Her letter trembled in her hand, not with the weight of the paper, but with the words written on it. "Your mother died. You are her sole heir to her estate." A bitter-sweet mixture of sorrow and outrage swirled in her heart as she gazed at the house.

It had been a strange relationship, her and her mother—never close, never quite enemies, but always distant strangers bound by blood. Maya never met her mother, and her mother, reciprocally, never met Maya. As a teenager, she left when her parents divorced, and she never came back.

But now she was here—standing on the doorstep of the past, drawn back by the force of a will, a mother's dying wish.

Steeling herself, Maya pushed open the door. It creaked on its hinges as though the house itself had been waiting for her return. The scent of old wood and leather filled her nostrils, blended with the subtle aroma of lavender that had been her mother's perfume of choice.

Everything seemed frozen in time. The same old furniture sat in the same places, the same rugs covered the wooden floors, worn through in spots where countless footsteps had walked. But everything was changed now, more stifling, as if the house itself was breathing its breath, waiting for her to reveal its secrets.

As Maya walked past the living room, she spotted the familiar bookshelves packed with books and photographs. She ran her fingers over a frame of her mom, smiling brightly as she clasped a very young Maya against her chest. The smile on the photo was warm but vacuous, and Maya felt her heart twinge.

She stepped away from the photograph, her eyes falling on the writing table where her mother had written her letters—letters Maya had never been able to bring herself to read. Her mother wrote constantly, keeping a diary, leaving a record of every occurrence. She was attempting to leave some record of a life Maya could never experience.

Maya pushed open one of the drawers and found a small, leather-bound journal. She hesitated for a moment, then opened it. The handwriting was familiar, the ink faded slightly.

"June 12th, 1998. The day Maya was born was the happiest day of my life. and the hardest. There are things I cannot tell her yet. Things I have to bury. But I hope, one day, she will get it."

Maya's heart skipped a beat. Her mother had always been so distant, so composed—what was she talking about? And why hadn't she told Maya about it all these years?

She was curious, so Maya continued reading. The entries were a mix of daily observations and personal thoughts. The last entry, however, was the most confusing.

"The truth is buried, but Maya is strong enough to find it."

The words felt like a taunt. Like her mother had left a trail of breadcrumbs to something important—something that would change everything Maya thought she knew about her family.

Then, suddenly, someone knocked on the door. Maya snapped the journal shut, her heart racing. She wasn't allowed to have anyone over. She crept to the door and peered through the peephole.

Standing on the porch was a stranger—tall, with sharp edges and an aura of subtle confidence. He was holding a box, an old wooden box, bound in twine. There was something familiar about the box, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Her breath stopped in her throat as she opened the door.

"Can I help you?" Maya asked, trying to steady her voice.

The man nodded politely. "I'm James. I was a friend of your mother's. a long time ago. This was hers."

Maya blinked, unsure what to say. "My mother's friend?"

James didn't immediately respond, but handed her the box. It was thicker than it looked, and the twine was frayed, as if it had been opened hundreds of times.

"Maybe you should open it," James breathed.

Maya held back from accepting the box from him. When her fingers touched the rough wood, something stirred in her—a half-fearful, half-fulfilling curiosity. She opened the box, and inside was a mix of papers, old letters, and photographs. On top of them was a folded letter with her name on it.

She trembled as she unfolded the letter and began reading:

"Maya, if you're reading this, it's because I'm gone and not here to protect you from the truth. The past is a labyrinth of secrets and lies, and it's time you knew the whole of it. This box contains pieces to a puzzle which has defined our family's history. You may not want to see it, but it's time you knew."

Maya's heart beat rapidly. She looked up at James, whose eyes were brimming with a deep sadness. "What is this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

James sighed. "It's time to learn who your mother really was."

To be continued…