Whispers of the Past

Lying awake in her room that night in the manor, Amelia knew she had discovered something real. Her mind would not let go of Eliza, of her words, of her sadness, of her love. Eventually, sleep overcame her, but she did not find rest. She dreamt of walking down the halls at Ashgrove Manor, only it was not the deserted, degrading house she knew. It was alive with the sound of laughter and music. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, their chandeliers glittering in candlelight.

And there, by the grand staircase, was Eliza.

Amelia watched the young woman, pale blue silk rustling as she smiled shyly up at some man standing in shadow, his face obscured. She could not hear them, but she felt the strength of their emotion, the unsaid love between them. He reached out and took the hand of Eliza, a moment of ideal perfection. Then, the scene flipped. Suddenly, the air was cold; the house began to darken. Slowly, the smile slid from Eliza's face, replaced with fear. Somewhere distantly, a door slammed shut, and he was gone.

Amelia sat up in one quick, jerky movement; her heart was racing wildly. It was so real, like she had actually been there and witnessed a moment in time, frozen. She shook her head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable residue that lingered in her mind. It was just a dream, she tried to tell herself. Yet, deeper inside, the voice knew better.

The next morning, Amelia went determinedly back to the drawing room. She went combing through the house in search of more clues about who Eliza's clandestine lover might be. But no matter where she looked, there was nothing: no letters, no photographs, no records explaining who "A" was, or what happened to him.

Frustrated, she decided to take a break and visit the local library in the village nearby. Maybe there were some historical records that would help piece the jigsaw together. She weaved her way through quiet streets, with a feeling that somehow she was being watched-a sensation not experienced for the first time since arriving at the manor, but now it was stronger than ever.

In the library, Amelia dug again through old newspapers and village records but found absolutely nothing. It was as if the romance of Eliza had never existed. Defeated, she was about to give up when a familiar voice startled her.

"Amelia?"

She turned to see Ethan Turner standing in the doorway. Ethan was a historian, just like her, but one with whom she had shared many years and a project in London. Once close to him, life—and work—had pulled them apart. Seeing him now, though felt like fate.

"Ethan?" Amelia said with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he returned with a grin. "I heard you were working on Ashgrove Manor. Figured I'd come check on you."

Amelia smiled, but something in the suddenness of his appearance rattled her. "I'm trying to find some history about the house," she said. "I came across these letters, love letters-really, from a woman named Eliza to someone she calls 'A.' But I can't find any record of who he was.

Ethan's face clouded over. "Eliza Montgomery," he whispered. "There are stories about her-tragic ones. But no one knows the truth, really."

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "You seem to know more than you're letting on.

Ethan peered around as if making sure no one was listening. "There is, in fact, a reason the manor was abandoned," he whispered. "Eliza's father, Lord Montgomery, held a lofty position. He had his vengeful enemies and would stop at nothing to protect the reputation of his family, even if it was destined for life destruction about those closest to him."

"What do you mean?" Amelia asked, quickening her pulse.

Ethan let out a deep sigh, running his hand through his hair. "I think the answers you are looking for are still in that house," he said. "But be careful. Some secrets are better left buried.

Amelia frowned, but before she could question him further, Ethan excused himself, promising to see the manor soon. She watched as he disappeared down the street, an unnerving sense of unease washing over her. Something about all this was beginning to feel wrong, like she was getting pulled into a story far more perilous than she'd anticipated.

One thing was for sure: she couldn't stop now. Eliza's story wasn't over, and neither was hers. The past was calling, and Amelia had no choice but to answer.