Chapter 6
Six
AURELIA
Time, they say, is the most expensive currency. Now I’m starting to understand what that really means.
When you’re younger, when someone else is still taking care of you, your mind lives in the future.
You build it piece by piece, making plans as if time stretches forever, as if it waits for you.
Now, standing here on my own, the future feels so far away.
And all I can think about is how to get through one more day.
Time... it slips through my fingers like sand. I try to hold onto it, but it keeps moving, never stopping. It feels like it’s draining out of me.
Today already feels like yesterday. The sun has dipped behind the cliffs of Mendocino. Morning barely touched me before it was gone. One blink, and the air already carries that soft chill of night.
There’s something about this place. I can’t name it yet. Maybe it’s the cliffs that drop into the restless ocean, or the house itself standing next to it. Whatever it is, it pulls me, like I don’t have a choice but to move closer.
So, I stand here, staring at the property like a piece of gothic art, frozen in time. Behind me, the low sound of Victor’s Volvo fades into the distance until it disappears completely. And all that’s left is silence.
In my hands, the plastic bags press into my fingers. One is filled with food I picked without a second thought, not knowing what a whole week of living even looks like now. The other holds clothes from a secondhand shop that still carry someone else’s life in their seams.
If it were up to me, I would’ve bought bread and cheese, and that would’ve been enough, but Margaret insisted that it’s terrible for digestion. The main reason why my bag ended up full of vegetables and fruit instead.
I can’t even blame myself. All I want is a hot shower, clean skin, and fresh clothes. Something simple that makes me feel like I’m still here in the land of living.
I take two steps closer to the house, shifting the bags in my hands as I reach into the pocket of my blazer. My fingers struggle to find the key. I balance one bag against my hip, steady the other, then slide the key into the lock and turn it twice, and the door opens.
The moment my foot crosses the threshold, a cold gust brushes against my face, as if the house is exhaling. And the silence that comes after... it settles heavy enough to press into my bones.
I step further inside. The dark wooden floor creaks under my feet, sounding through the empty space as I move forward.
There’s a faint noise coming from the living room, like a window is left open somewhere, making a breeze slip through the halls.
I try to ignore it. And instead of checking what the sound might be, I head toward the staff kitchen. As I step inside, I grip the bags tighter, searching for somewhere to set them down.
The door slams shut, making my head snap up, knocking the breath from my lungs.
“Hello?” I shout into the empty air. A creeping feeling twists my stomach, then drags itself up my spine. I already know no one will answer. But still, a small part of me fears I might not be alone.
“Great, Aurelia,” I mutter under my breath. “Now you’re talking to yourself too.”
My gaze drops back to the bags. I take out one item at a time, placing them down carefully, glancing over my shoulder as if I expect someone to be standing in the doorway, watching me. Waiting. No one is ever there, but the feeling doesn’t leave.
The second the last item is out of the bag, I straighten and rush out of the kitchen, letting the door slam shut behind me.
I walk quickly, eyes fixed on my feet, as if that might shake the feeling trailing behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, something moves. A shadow.
My gaze lifts slowly toward the staircase, and my breath catches in my throat. I could swear something moved. My hands come up to my face, rubbing my eyes. The cheap plastic bag is still hanging from my wrist, its handle pulling my skin.
“Is anyone here?”
No one answers.
I move further down the hallway. That same feeling follows me, like the eyes on my back.
My heart races fast enough that I feel it everywhere, in my chest, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers. Goosebumps rise along my skin as I pass the staircase.
Then I hear a sudden, sharp creak.
I turn around.
The front door is open.
The bag slips from my hand, hitting the floor. I try to look up, but fear locks my body in place, like if I do, someone will be standing there, watching me.
Maybe the same man from the station followed me. Maybe I have a stalker now.
“No, Aurelia,” a whisper comes under my breath. “It’s just the wind.”
I exhale and leave the bag on the floor. My fingers curl into fists as I try to steady myself, forcing my legs to move toward the door. I step past the bag and reach for it.
My hand grips the handle as I close it and turn the key twice.
But the feeling doesn’t go away.
Cold breath brushes my back, as if someone is standing right behind me. It skims past my hair, light, but enough to make my breath hitch. I want to turn around, but I can’t. I’m frozen.
I close my eyes, trying to imagine I’m somewhere else—somewhere I’m not this vulnerable. Just as I do, the phone rings. The sound cuts the silence so sharply it pulls a short scream from my throat.
I spin around.
In the house it’s just me, the wind, and the black phone stuck on the wall, ringing again and again.
I move toward it slowly, my toes clenching in my shoes as I reach the wall. My hand lifts, shaking, and I grab the receiver, my voice repeating the same words Margaret said the first time I called about the job.
“Rosewood Residence, how may I help you?”
No one answers. Just the silence on the other side.
“Hello?” I try again, louder this time.
At first there’s nothing, only slow breath, slipping against the shell of my ear.
My throat tightens.
“Hello?” I say.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the receiver for a moment before placing it back.
As soon as it settles into its cradle, I turn and move too fast, grabbing the bag with clothes and rushing toward the stairs, skipping two at the time, almost tripping as I reach the top.
I don’t stop until I’m inside the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
I press my back against it, holding the handle tight, like that alone can keep whatever is out there from getting in. My eyes squeeze shut.
If this house holds ghosts, then they’ve found me. And I’m scared.
This was supposed to be a new beginning. Instead, it feels like I’ve stepped into one of the seven circles of Hell.
The phone starts ringing again. This time, the sound is coming from inside the room.
I can’t move or open my eyes.
I don’t want to answer it again.
I squeeze them tighter until small sparks shine behind my eyelids like little stars. For a second, they almost look like light. But I know it’s just my mind trying to hold itself together. I’m too fragile to be sane right now.
I drop the bag of clothes with my eyes still closed. I reach for the doorknob, my fingers sliding down until they find the key. I turn it, hearing the lock click in place.
The phone finally stops ringing.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
My gaze moves to the window left open, and I don’t remember if it was like that before.
I step closer to close it. I notice something down below, near the cliffs, beneath the tree. There’s a man in a black suit. A cigarette burns between his fingers, smoke curling into the air as he stares straight up at the window, at me.
He’s watching me.
A scream tears out of my throat. I slam the window shut and pull the curtains together, my hands shaking as they tangle in the cotton fabric.
I rush to the bed and drop onto it, dragging the blanket over my face as if it can hide me. It should make everything disappear. But it doesn’t. Instead, my mind starts playing games with me. I hear the soft hum of my mother’s voice, the way she used to sing me to sleep.
The memory pulls me in, and I begin to hum Lavender’s Blue, just like she did, just to calm myself. The sound doesn’t soothe me. It matches my heartbeat instead, growing louder every second.
My body starts to shake. The pain from earlier slowly returns, spreading through me. Did I push myself too far? Running, walking… all of it. Maybe this is just my body catching up. Or maybe none of this is real.
“This is all a dream,” I whisper. “Just a dream inside some weird dream.”
I pinch my skin, dragging it between my fingertips until it stings.
“Just a dream,” I whisper again.
I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat, and shove the blanket off me.
I stand, even though it feels like every nerve in my body is on fire. My teeth grind together, the pressure sharpening in my jaw, but I move anyway, step by step, walking back toward the window, toward the tree.
He is no longer there.
Night has fallen within a minute. It’s already dark. The sky feels heavy, like it’s dropped too low, pressing down on everything.
Still, I keep staring at the tree, waiting to see him again. As if I want him to be there.
And at the same time… hoping he’s not.
What is happening to me?
The house is silent. Part of me thinks it’s too silent.
That silence won’t let me sleep. Dasha used to say that people who feel uncomfortable in silence are people who got used to noise, that they grew up in loud households.
I find truth in her words, mostly because I grew up in a loud household.
Not because my parents fought all the time, but because there was always movement.
If my parents weren’t around, there were nannies, tutors, and Dasha.
My parents never allowed me to be alone for even a second, treated me like porcelain as if I might crack the moment no one was watching.
When I was younger, I thought they were overly protective because I was so loved. Now I see it was mostly because they were afraid that if anything happened to me, they’d lose what I was worth.
I still don’t know where that money went, and I never cared enough to ask. I was so thoroughly conditioned to trust that I believed everyone, even people who weren’t my blood. And all they did was use me, drain me until there was nothing left but something dry and hollow.
Back then, it didn’t bother me. Now, knowing what it looks like to be by myself, it bothers me more than it should. When I had everything, I lived inside a lie. Now, with everyone gone and the lies buried with them, the truth hurts so much I can barely survive it.
And even if they had survived the accident, they would have died the moment they heard I would never be able to play piano again.
Maybe it’s selfish of me to think like this, to turn my whole past over in my head like I’m stuck inside it.
But when I can’t think about the future, I dig into the past because it hurts less.
Looking back, I might have been naive, but I was happy. Now I’m stuck with this pain in my chest that hurts but won’t let me cry, won’t let me grieve all the deaths. Maybe I just don’t know how.
I stand, letting my bare feet touch the cold wooden floor.
After the shower, my cinnamon hair curls into loose locks, and the secondhand white nightgown feels like paper against my skin.
I take a step forward, moving to the closet and trying to find something more comfortable to sleep in.
At some point, I think I would be more comfortable sleeping naked, but the uneasy feeling that my mother might be watching me from above, disapproving, pushes the thought away.
The dark brown wooden closet stands in front of me. I open the door and find a single wooden bar dividing it into two parts. On the left, I have folded black and white shirts and jeans onto the shelves. On the right, two more similar nightgowns hang, almost identical to the one I am wearing.
I sigh and hold myself against the wooden bar in the middle, still feeling weak from the day. The weight of my body makes the closet lift slowly, and as it does, something falls from above and hits me right in the middle of my head.
“Fuck,” I curse, lifting my hand to the spot that hurts. A hiss slips through my teeth as my brows pull together.
I look down and see a black leather notebook wrapped in a thin black cord. Crouching down, I lift it into my hands, already forgetting why I came to the closet in the first place. I unwrap the cord, and beneath it, two gold letters are stamped into the leather.
“L.R.,” I say out loud, then open the first page.
I close the diary. Her words leave a sour taste in my mouth. She wrote every thought, every bitter thought, and left it all behind in the hope that someone would read it.
Who are you? Why do you sound like me?