It was the eve of a holiday, and the Ana and Leo household was in a state of chaos. Suitcases cluttered the hallway, clothes were scattered across beds, and the usual last-minute frenzy that accompanied family trips was in full force. While her mother rushed from one room to another, ensuring nothing was left behind, and her father struggled —unsuccessfully — to close the trunk of their already overstuffed car, Abigail sought refuge in her bedroom. The window was open, letting in a warm evening breeze that carried the fading scents of the day.
The house was alive with sound: hurried footsteps, doors slamming, the hum of the television broadcasting a news segment that no one was actually watching. Lying on her bed, Abigail stared at the ceiling, lost in a haze of thoughts. The usual anticipation she felt before traveling had been replaced by a deep, relentless disinterest. Her parents insisted that this trip was important, but to Abigail, it was just another dull excursion to visit distant relatives she barely knew. The idea of spending days trapped in polite conversation and forced smiles made her skin crawl. She felt like an outsider, as if she existed on the fringes of other people's expectations, never truly belonging.
"Abigail, have you packed your suitcase?" Her mother's voice rang out from the hallway, snapping her out of her daydreams. Abigail's mother was meticulous, a woman who made lists for everything—groceries, daily tasks, even reminders to check other lists.
"We can't be late again," her mother continued, her voice tight with the usual mix of nervous energy and excitement. "Your aunt is expecting us for lunch tomorrow."
"I'm packing," Abigail responded automatically, though she hadn't moved a muscle. She knew her mother's urgency was genuine, but it didn't change how she felt.
Moments later, her mother appeared at the doorway, her expression shifting from impatience to mild concern. "Are you okay, sweetheart? You look… down." There was a softness in her voice, a warmth that, despite everything, Abigail appreciated.
"I just don't see why we have to go," Abigail sighed, sitting up. "What's so interesting about it? It's just old people telling boring stories." She had heard all of her mother's justifications before, and none of them had ever convinced her.
Her mother stepped inside and sat down on the bed beside her. "I know it might seem that way, but this trip is more than just visiting relatives. There's something there that I think you'll find fascinating." Her tone carried a hint of mystery, as if she were keeping a secret.
Abigail narrowed her eyes, skeptical but slightly intrigued. "Like what?"
Her mother smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "There are stories in that house, Abigail. Stories that need to be heard—and maybe even told by someone like you. Someone with an imagination as vivid as yours."
Something about those words sent a strange ripple through Abigail's thoughts. Did her mother actually believe what she was saying, or was this just another attempt to make the trip seem less dreadful?
"Stories?" Abigail repeated, her voice tinged with doubt.
"Yes," her mother confirmed as she stood up. "But to hear them, you have to be there. I promise it won't be as boring as you think."
And with that, she left the room, leaving Abigail with more questions than answers.
The next morning, despite her lingering skepticism, Abigail found herself in the back seat of their car, watching the city fade into a blur of highways and endless stretches of countryside. The drive was long, filled with the familiar routine of snacks, music, and moments of quiet reflection. Fields rolled past the window, the golden sunlight stretching over the horizon like a watercolor painting. But despite the monotony of the drive, a small ember of curiosity had begun to flicker inside her. What had her mom meant about the stories?
They arrived at her grandparents' house in the late afternoon. It was an old colonial-style estate, nestled among towering trees that seemed to whisper in the wind. The scent of aged wood and damp earth filled the air, and the house itself radiated an air of forgotten time, as if it had been untouched by the modern world.
The evening was filled with the usual family chatter. Abigail sat at the dinner table, feeling disconnected as her relatives talked animatedly around her. Their faces were familiar, yet distant, fragments of childhood memories she had never bothered to piece together. After a while, she quietly excused herself, carrying her plate to the porch. The sunset painted the sky in brilliant hues of gold and crimson, casting long shadows across the land. The world felt still, yet Abigail remained an outsider to its beauty.
She wasn't alone for long.
Her aunt grand sat in chair, smoking his pipe, the rhythmic creak of his rocking chair filling the quiet. There was something different about her this time — an air of solemn, a depth in his gaze that she hadn't noticed before.
"Come here, girl," she called softly. "Let's talk."
Abigail hesitated for only a moment before sitting beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke. Then, in his slow, deliberate way, her aunt began to tell her about the old library in the house — a place she had never paid much attention to before.
"There are books in there that haven't been touched in decades," she said, exhaling a thin wisp of smoke. "Diaries, letters, records of things that most people have long forgotten. Stories of love, of loss… of things that cannot be explained."
Abigail listened, the weight of his words sinking in. Something about the way he spoke made her feel as if he were offering her a key — not just to a place, but to some moment special.
"These stories are the legacy of our family," he continued. "she continued. "And your grandpa had a feeling, that you're the one meant to bring them back to life."
The aunt Grace reached into his pocket and pulled out an old iron key, placing it in her palm. The metal was cool against her skin, heavier than it looked. She stared at it, a strange shiver running down her spine.
That night, she could barely sleep. The idea of the library, the hidden stories — everything filled her mind like a storm of possibilities.
The next morning, just after breakfast, Abigail made up her mind. She found an old bicycle in the garage, its frame covered in dust, and rode out toward the library her aunt Grace had spoken of. The wind rushed against her face as she pedaled down the worn cobblestone streets, her heart pounding — not from exertion, but from something else entirely. The building was grand but faded, standing like a forgotten monument at the edge of the town. Above the entrance, barely visible beneath layers of dust and time, was your grandpa name: Dom Ferraz.
Her family owned this place? She pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping inside. A wave of cool, musty air wrapped around her, the scent of aged paper and mystery filling her senses. The library was vast — towering shelves lined with books that stretched high into the shadows, their spines worn and cracked from years of neglect. The place felt alive, as if the stories themselves were waiting to be read, to be rediscovered. Abigail's fingers tightened around the key in her hand. For one moment, she felt as though she belonged to something greater. She stepped forward, drawn deeper into the maze of books and forgotten histories, knowing that whatever she found there — whatever secrets were hidden within those walls — maybe could change your life.