Echoes of the lost

forbidding in the light of day, its weathered wood and sagging roof a reminder of how time ravaged everything, including memories. She couldn't help but feel a gnawing sense of unease as she

he foreground were strangers, dressed in vintage clothing. But why was the house featured so prominently? And why were these photos hidden away in the attic? She turned to the next photo, her heart rate quickening. The scene was similar, but in the distance stood a familiar figure-a young girl. Her hair was long and dark, her face smiling brightly, as though nothing was wrong in the world. Eliza's stomach twisted. It was Celia. The date on the back of the photo read 1975. Eliza blinked, her mind racing to make sense of what she was seeing. Celia couldn't have been alive in 1975. She wasn't even born yet. Her fingers fumbled through the remaining photos, each one showing Celia at different ages, all impossibly dated long before she should have existed. The last photo in the stack was the most unsettling-it showed Celia standing alone, in front of the Moreau house, looking straight into the camera. Her smile was gone, replaced by an expression of fear. Eliza dropped the photograph, her pulse pounding in her ears. What did this mean? Was it some kind of trick? Some sick joke? But as she looked around the dusty attic, she knew this was no prank. Something was terribly wrong. A Hidden Journal Eliza's mind raced as she stuffed the photographs into her bag, but as she did, her fingers brushed against something else-a book, small and leather-bound, wedged between the floorboards beneath the box. It had clearly been hidden there on purpose. She pulled it free and opened the fragile cover. The handwriting was delicate, familiar. It was Celia's journal. The first few entries were typical-notes about school, friends, the mundanity of daily life. But as Eliza skimmed ahead, she found a shift in tone. Celia had started writing about strange occurrences-people she didn't recognize watching her from across the street, phone calls where no one spoke, the feeling of being followed. One entry stood out among the rest: "I keep hearing whispers. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but now I'm not so sure. They say my name, like they're calling me, but when I turn around, there's no one there. And there's something else-something I can't explain. The faces I see... they seem familiar, but they don't belong in this time. It's like they're out of place, like they're