Page 44 of Her Soul to Own

The key, if I remember right, was hidden in the back of her music box—a delicate silver piece I couldn’t bear to open after the funeral. I didn’t want to hear the song. I didn’t want to know what else she left behind.

But now?

Now, I have to know. I woke up craving for more of her. Anything that might help me understand what happened. It’s been nagging at me for months now, and I can’t wait any longer.

I sprint back to my room, grab the box from my dresser, and gently open it. Dust greets me until I shift the lining and feel the smooth touch of metal. A small brass key, ornate, old-fashioned.

Back in the attic, I kneel again, my heart hammering. The key slides in perfectly, and with a soft click, the lock releases.

Inside, there are bundles of hand-tied letters, the pages yellowed with time. Then, another journal and a small cassette tape labeled in tight, shaky handwriting:Listen Alone.

I swallow hard, reaching for the cassette, when suddenly, the memory from last night’s phone call hits like a punch.

“I don’t know exactly what it is,” Elijah had said. His voice was lower than I remembered, but it still carried the same calm I used to crave. “But there’s a connection between Silas and your mother.”

“What kind of connection?” I’d asked, curling up on the window seat with my legs tucked under me as I stared at the estate’s empty courtyard.

“I’m not sure. Yet. But I dug into Silas’s file. And let’s just say… he’s not exactly the kind of man your father hired off a resume.”

“Shocker.”

“Lyra, I need you to be careful. I asked some people I shouldn’t have and might’ve rattled some cages.”

“You’re saying they know you’re sniffing around.”

“I’m saying if you’re going to confront him, don’t do it alone. He’s a dangerous man. But don’t trust your father to have your back. They’ve known each other for years and have worked together before. I don’t know the details, but if he’s a man your father trusts, then he can’t be trusted.”

I’d been silent then because I already knew that. Elijah had apologized after and said he wouldn’t have dug so deep if he knew what it would trigger.

But it was too late.

Now, I’m staring down at my mother’s journal, my hands shaking as I open it.

The pages are lined with sketches. Notes. Lyrics. But one name stands out to me from the margins.

Silas Creed.

He was there. Somehow, he was part of her story. And I never knew.

My breath catches as I reach for the cassette, nestled deep between folds of silk at the bottom of the chest.

It’s like someone tried to hide it. Probably my mother.

I run my fingers over the label:Listen Alone.

And I know, in that moment, nothing is ever going to be the same again.

The stairs to the nursery creak like they’ve been holding their breath for years. I grip the railing tighter, my bare feet silent on the chilled wooden steps. It’s barely dawn outside, with just a pale ribbon of light bleeding through the eastern windows. The rest of the estate is still shrouded in that blue-gray quiet that belongs to ghosts.

The nursery door groans when I push it open, revealing a room locked in time. Dust blankets everything: old plush toys, a toppled rocking horse, the faded pastel wallpaper peeling in soft curls. In the corner sits my crib. It’s not a sleek designer one but a sturdy wooden cage with hand-painted flowers, now cracked and flaking. It smells like cedar and mildew and something long dead.

I don’t know why I came here.

Maybe because this is the last room in the house untouched by my current life, or maybe because trauma has a scent, and it brought me here by the throat.

The cassette in my hand feels heavier than it should, like it knows something I don’t, and it’s been waiting to unravel.

I spot an old Fisher-Price player on the shelf, miraculously intact beneath a blanket of dust. I pull it down, wipe it off with the sleeve of my hoodie, and slide the tape in with a click that sounds too loud for a room this quiet.

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