The Last Letter

No one had lived in the old house at the end of Willow Lane for years, but when Ella found the heavy brass key hidden inside a library book, something inside her told her it was meant for her.

She was only seventeen, still figuring out who she was, but curiosity burned brighter than fear. The next afternoon, with the key tucked deep in her pocket, she biked through the rain to the abandoned house.

The door groaned open as she turned the key. Dust floated in the air like tiny ghosts. The house smelled of forgotten dreams — old wood, damp curtains, and something faintly sweet, like wildflowers pressed between the pages of a book.

Ella wandered through the rooms, careful where she stepped. The furniture was covered in white sheets, like the house was sleeping. In the corner of the living room, she spotted a writing desk. On top of it sat a single, yellowed envelope, her name written on the front.

Her heart skipped.

Ella.

But how? No one knew she was coming. No one even knew she found the key.

With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope. The letter inside was written in elegant handwriting.

Dearest Ella,

If you're reading this, then the house has chosen you. My name is Margaret Wren, and once, many years ago, I lived here. I was just like you — curious, a little lost, and longing to find a place where I belonged.

This house isn’t ordinary. It listens. It remembers. Every person who’s ever loved it has left a piece of themselves behind — their hopes, their stories, their music.

I am leaving you a gift. In the attic, under the third floorboard from the window, you will find something that belongs to you, even if you don’t know it yet.

Trust yourself. You are stronger, braver, and wiser than you think.

With love, always,

Margaret.

Ella read the letter three times before she moved. Was it a prank? Some kind of elaborate joke?

But the house hummed around her, almost like it was breathing.

Up the narrow staircase she went, heart pounding. In the attic, moonlight slanted through a cracked window, illuminating the dusty floor. She counted carefully — one, two, three — and pried up the floorboard.

There, wrapped in a faded silk scarf, was a small wooden box. Inside was a locket, old but beautiful, and a stack of photographs.

Ella’s breath caught.

The girl in the pictures looked exactly like her.

Not similar. Exactly.

Same bright eyes. Same stubborn chin. Same half-smile.

She flipped one of the photos over. In neat handwriting, it said:

"Ella Wren, 1925."

Ella sank back on her heels. 1925. Nearly a hundred years ago.

Margaret Wren. Ella Wren.

Family she never knew she had.

All her life, Ella had felt like she didn’t quite fit anywhere, like there was a part of her story missing. And now, here it was — a connection, a history, a secret meant just for her.

Tears blurred her eyes as she fastened the locket around her neck. It felt warm, almost alive.

The house creaked softly, and for the first time, Ella didn’t feel afraid. She felt home.

As she left the attic, the floorboards whispered under her feet. A soft music filled the air — like a lullaby played on an old piano.

Ella smiled.

She would come back tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

There were stories here that wanted to be heard.

And she was ready to listen.

Some secrets wait a lifetime to be found."