The road to Ashbourne twisted like a serpent through the valley, narrowing beneath gnarled branches that clawed at the sky. A fog had settled low, curling around Eleanor's ankles as she stepped from the carriage, her boots sinking into the soft, mossy earth. The driver muttered a hasty farewell, eyes fixed on the treeline as he urged the horses onward, their hoofbeats swallowed by the mist.
Eleanor stood alone, staring down the cobbled path that led to the village. It looked smaller than she remembered, as if the years had hunched its shoulders and hollowed its chest. The houses leaned together, their wooden beams creaking in the damp air, roofs sagging under the weight of decay. Once, she had run laughing through these crooked alleys, a child unburdened by grief or memory. Now, the laughter seemed buried beneath the stone, pressed deep into the soil.
A shiver danced along her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself, the chill sinking beneath her coat, cold as the shadows that pooled between the buildings. The wind whispered through the branches, carrying a faint melody—a lilting, mournful tune that flickered at the edge of hearing. Eleanor's heart stumbled. She could almost hear her mother's voice, humming that same tune by the fireside, her fingers weaving through Eleanor's hair.
Her chest tightened. The memory was sharp, too vivid, like a splinter lodged beneath her ribs. She shook it off and started forward, her footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. Faces peeked from behind warped shutters, eyes wide and unblinking. The villagers watched her in silence, their expressions hollow, unreadable. A murmur rippled through them as she passed, low and conspiratorial, words slipping just beyond reach.
She kept her gaze fixed ahead, ignoring the prickling at the back of her neck. It was as if the whole village held its breath, waiting.
The house stood at the edge of the square, its windows black and empty, gaping like open mouths. Weeds curled around the stone steps, twisting through the cracks, and the door hung slightly ajar, swaying in the breeze. Eleanor hesitated, her hand hovering above the worn handle.
She could still see her mother standing there, framed in the doorway, the sunlight catching in her hair as she waved goodbye. Eleanor's stomach turned, the echo of that day unraveling in her mind—the last time she had seen her mother alive.
She pushed the door open. It groaned on its hinges, the sound long and hollow, breaking the stillness. The air inside was stale, heavy with dust and disuse. Shadows loomed along the walls, leaning in like curious strangers. Eleanor stepped inside, her pulse quickening. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight, each step reverberating through the silence.
She moved through the familiar rooms, memories brushing against her like cobwebs—laughter, soft and fleeting; the scent of herbs drying by the window; the scrape of a chair against the floor as her mother sat, hunched over her journals, ink staining her fingertips.
At the back of the house, she found the small parlor where her mother used to weave stories by the firelight, her voice low and musical, words dancing with the shadows. The hearth was cold now, its ashes long settled. Eleanor's fingers grazed the mantel, tracing the dust-coated surface. Her mother's old books were still stacked neatly on the shelf, their spines cracked and faded.
As she turned away, a whisper rustled through the room, soft as a sigh. She froze, the hair on her arms rising. It was faint, so faint she almost dismissed it as the wind. But then she heard it again—a low murmur, threading through the air like smoke.
Her chest tightened. It was a voice, distant and distorted, echoing through the empty house. It sounded like her mother.
Eleanor's throat went dry. Her feet moved before she could think, carrying her back down the hallway, out the door, and into the damp, gray morning. The fog curled around her, cold and heavy, whispering against her skin. She looked back at the house, its windows dark and hollow, the door still swaying on its hinges.
For a moment, she could have sworn she saw a figure standing there, half-hidden in shadow. But when she blinked, it was gone.
The melody floated on the wind again, faint and mournful, drifting through the fog. Eleanor's heart beat faster. She turned away, pulling her coat tight, and hurried down the cobbled path, the whispers following her all the way to the village square.