Here’s a continuation of the story in the same emotional, suspenseful style:
Replayed it.
The indentation remained.
I didn’t know what frightened me more:
Seeing it.
Or knowing it wasn’t a trick of the camera.
That afternoon, I decided to visit my mother.
I hadn’t mentioned any of this to her before.
I expected her to laugh.
Instead, she went completely silent.
« Mom? »
She stared into her coffee.
Then whispered something that made my blood run cold.
« Emily’s room… »
« What about it? »
My mother looked up.
« You never knew because you were too young. »
A knot formed in my chest.
« Too young for what? »
Her eyes filled with tears.
Before answering, she walked to a cabinet and removed an old photograph album.
The cover was worn with age.
Inside were pictures from nearly twenty years earlier.
Family gatherings.
Birthday parties.
Holidays.
Then I saw her.
A little girl.
Dark hair.
Bright smile.
Maybe eight years old.
Exactly Emily’s age.
I didn’t recognize her.
« Who is that? »
My mother gently touched the photo.
« Her name was Grace. »
I frowned.
« I’ve never heard of her. »
« No, » my mother said quietly.
« Because nobody talks about Grace anymore. »
The room suddenly felt smaller.
« Why? »
My mother’s voice broke.
« Because she was your sister. »
I stared at her.
Unable to breathe.
« What? »
My mother nodded slowly.
« Before you were born, I had another daughter. »
The words barely registered.
« A sister? »
She wiped away tears.
« Grace died after a long illness when she was eight years old. »
Eight.
The same age as Emily.
I looked back at the photograph.
And then I saw it.
The room behind Grace.
The yellow night light.
The bookshelf.
The wallpaper.
My daughter’s bedroom.
My daughter’s room had once belonged to her.
I felt dizzy.
My mother reached across the table.
« Grace hated sleeping alone. »
I swallowed hard.
« Mom… »
My voice trembled.
« What are you trying to tell me? »
She shook her head.
« I don’t know. »
Then she pointed to the photograph.
My eyes followed.
There, stitched into the corner of Grace’s blanket, were three embroidered words.
Words I had heard Emily whisper in her sleep two nights earlier.
Words I thought were nonsense.
Words no one had spoken in this house for nearly twenty years.
« You’re late tonight. »
For the first time since this started, I understood why Emily’s bed felt too small.
Because every night, in her mind at least, she wasn’t sleeping alone.
And somewhere between grief, memory, and a family secret buried for decades…
Someone was still making room beside her.
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