Week 4 Writing Homework
Write a narrative that explores the significance of the past. Use an extended motif to strengthen your message.
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- Due Date : March 8, 2025
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Felix SUN Week 4 Writing Scholarship
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – zhuyingdorahotmail-com
The wind howled through the gaps of the old, rundown house, carrying the scent of soil and dust. It was years since Emily had laid eyes on the property. As she ran her hand down the wood railing, a shiver went through her. The past, she thought, was always one to stay.
Her mother’s words echoed in her mind as she walked along the empty halls. “This house is a reflection of our family’s history, a place where the past is always alive.” The old photographs on the walls seemed to watch her, minutes in the past which no longer belonged to her. Nevertheless, as she entered deeper into the house, she was attracted by a paining, unwilling force that drew her toward the reminiscences that she had long tried to foresee but never evaded.
She halted in the living room in front of the old grandfather clock, which was cracked but still ticking. Time had not been good to the clock, but it continued ticking away nonetheless, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to leave the past behind, somehow it always seemed to stick with you. The hands were at midnight. A new day, but the same familiar pattern. The thought struck her like a bell clanging in her brain.
“You can never quite leave it behind,” she whispered aloud, not sure if she was talking to the house or to herself.
The memories flooded back then her father, his peculiar ways, his hurtful words that he would distort in fights. The cold nights that seemed to last forever. She had fled, run to the city where time went fast, where no one asked anything about what she had left behind. But now, standing in the house, she recognized the past had been pursuing her, waiting patiently for her to try and escape, following her steps quietly. It was not just the creaky walls or the faded wallpaper. It was her choices, her remorse, her bitter guilt. The groan of a door interrupted her daydream. She turned to find facing her a face she had not looked upon in over ten years.
Her father. He stood before her, as if he had never left, his eyes dark and distant. “You think you can hide from it?” he snarled, his voice gruff but welcome. The air in the room became thick, the past weighing on her like a boulder. “I didn’t come back for you,” she said softly, almost to herself. But he said nothing. He turned and disappeared into the blackness of the house. The door closed behind, a slow creaking slowness that startled her. Emily stood frozen, unsure if she should follow or leave.
The clock continued ticking.
Time passed, relentless in its duration, indifferent to her struggle, to the history that had clung to her, as it had clung to this home for decades. The question hung in the balance—Could she ever truly move on from the weight of her past, or would she have to bear it for the rest of her days?
The wind howled through the gaps of the old, rundown house, carrying the scent of soil and dust. It was years since Emily had laid eyes on the property. As she ran her hand down the wood railing, a shiver went through her. The past, she thought, was always one to stay.
Her mother’s words echoed in her mind as she walked along the empty halls. “This house is a reflection of our family’s history, a place where the past is always alive.” The old photographs on the walls seemed to watch her, minutes in the past which no longer belonged to her. Nevertheless, as she entered deeper into the house, she was attracted by a paining, unwilling force that drew her toward the reminiscences that she had long tried to foresee but never evaded.
She halted in the living room in front of the old grandfather clock, which was cracked but still ticking. Time had not been good to the clock, but it continued ticking away nonetheless, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to leave the past behind, somehow it always seemed to stick with you. The hands were at midnight. A new day, but the same familiar pattern. The thought struck her like a bell clanging in her brain.
“You can never quite leave it behind,” she whispered aloud, not sure if she was talking to the house or to herself.
The memories flooded back then her father, his peculiar ways, his hurtful words that he would distort in fights. The cold nights that seemed to last forever. She had fled, run to the city where time went fast, where no one asked anything about what she had left behind. But now, standing in the house, she recognized the past had been pursuing her, waiting patiently for her to try and escape, following her steps quietly. It was not just the creaky walls or the faded wallpaper. It was her choices, her remorse, her bitter guilt. The groan of a door interrupted her daydream. She turned to find facing her a face she had not looked upon in over ten years.
Her father. He stood before her, as if he had never left, his eyes dark and distant. “You think you can hide from it?” he snarled, his voice gruff but welcome. The air in the room became thick, the past weighing on her like a boulder. “I didn’t come back for you,” she said softly, almost to herself. But he said nothing. He turned and disappeared into the blackness of the house. The door closed behind, a slow creaking slowness that startled her. Emily stood frozen, unsure if she should follow or leave.
The clock continued ticking.
Time passed, relentless in its duration, indifferent to her struggle, to the history that had clung to her, as it had clung to this home for decades. The question hung in the balance. Could she ever truly move on from the weight of her past, or would she have to bear it for the rest of her days?
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Varoon
A loud sound at the doorbell woke me up from my sleep. The sun was clearly only starting to rise from its bed and there was no reason anyone should’ve been out of bed. I stepped out into the frigid winds to find a parcel that looked like it had just run a marathon. With no one in my sight, I decided to take the box into the warm house-hold for further investigation. When I opened the delicate box, a flood of perplexity hit me. A rusted, old watch covered in dust was staring straight through my soul. On the visibly cracked screen, there was a countdown with only 10 hours left. What was it counting down to? I had no idea. There was also a fragile note with the scent of dust that read “watch the change happen at the heart of the city”. Though I did not know what that meant, the countdown pushed me into immediate action.
I started with the city’s cozy library, which was as warm as hot chocolate on a winter night. Expecting to see some sort of change about to happen, I began quickly pacing around every section of the library. Yet even there, where every single heart of the city had been to, nothing looked like it was going to change. Desperately, I started scouring through the books for anything that could help me, but all the information was hiding from me. With that, I ambled down-heartedly through the welcoming doors of the library.
But I wasn’t going to stop there because I knew that the museum had millions of pieces of ancient items. As soon as I stepped into the museum, I headed for the watch section. However, everything was as it normally was, and I felt my heart sink into my stomach. As I trudged out of the building, the museum owner blandly told me where the oldest building in town was and I was ecstatic.
Walking into the creaky building was spine chilling. There were 10 seconds until something, big or small, was going to happen. As soon as I recovered my senses, the minuscule town’s history started to make sense. The making of the museum, the pizza restaurant and the library were all starting to make sense. In my head, I secretly praised the worker who woke up so early just so that I could see this happen.
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Tricia Yi
Elf Street
The old oak tree on Elf Street had been there for as long as Ella could remember, its branches sprawling wide like arms reaching for the sky. To most, it was just a tree, but to Ella, it was something much more, a keeper of memories, of moments long passed. Its leaves whispered in the wind, as if telling stories from years gone by, and its thick trunk was covered with decades of carved initials, some barely legible, some still sharp and fresh.
When she was little, Ella spent hours beneath its shade. She would run her fingers over the weathered bark, tracing the initials of couples who’d carved their love into it decades ago, and listen to her grandmother’s stories about the town. There was one she loved, about how her grandparents had first moved into a small house just down the road, and how this tree had been there through every step of their lives. Her grandmother would tell her how they would sit together beneath it on summer evenings, the tree a silent witness to their quiet conversations, their plans for the future. Ella’s father, too, had memories of climbing the tree as a boy, seeing the whole neighborhood from its highest branches. He’d always laugh when he told the story of how he once tried to jump from the tree to the roof of their house, only to end up in the flowerbed, much to his mother’s dismay. For Ella, these stories made the tree feel like more than just wood and leaves; it was a part of their history, rooted in everything that came before her, a bridge between generations.
But when the town announced plans to tear it down to make way for a new road, Ella’s heart sank. She couldn’t understand how something so full of memories could be taken down so easily. She fought to keep it standing, talking to the town council, pleading with them to see the tree the way she saw it, as something irreplaceable, something that held the heart of the community. She organized petitions, shared stories of the tree’s importance, but to them, it was just an obstacle in the way of progress—a thing of the past, too old and too slow for the bustling future they envisioned.
The night before the tree was to be cut down, Ella went to visit it one last time. The air was cool, and the ground felt soft under her feet, the smell of damp earth mingling with the scent of pine. She touched the carvings again, feeling the weight of all the moments they carried. She could almost hear the echoes of the laughter, the hushed conversations, the quiet promises made beneath its branches. It was as though the past was alive in that tree, in every knot, every scar, every memory embedded in its bark. She sat beneath it for hours, lost in thought, wishing there was more she could do, but also knowing she couldn’t change the course of time.
The next morning, the sound of chainsaws cut through the quiet. Ella watched, heart heavy, as the oak fell. She stood there, the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth, as the tree’s mighty trunk cracked and thudded to the ground, sending a cloud of dust into the air. But as it hit the ground, she knew something the town didn’t—its story wasn’t over. She wrote about it, about the love, the memories, the generations who had shared their lives beneath its branches. She wrote about the tree’s strength and resilience, how it had weathered storms, how it had stood as a symbol of permanence in a world that constantly changed. The tree was gone, but its roots ran deep in the hearts of those who remembered, in the memories that could never be erased.
Because the past doesn’t disappear. It lives on in the stories we carry with us, in the small, quiet places that remind us who we are.
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Jayden Zhou _ Ian Zhou
The thunderstorm roared as I was walking to my hundredth-year old house. I just couldn’t believe how old it was so many years and that flooding memories always just always must come back to my mind something that I will never forget. I walk around the empty echoing halls thinking it is like a haunted nightmare. It was all because of that old clock, it just had to go so fast, and I was losing my parents, both even worse, it was horrifying, and I felt deep guilt in my bones.
I remember that day the happiest family on earth walking through the hallway’s family walking together. It was then that I realized the clock hanging bright in the middle of our hallway every year that went passing the clock at the bottom would show the years of how long that time had gone by. I decided to look at how many years it took to see how long my parents had, had this clock for and what I saw was horrifying and traumatizing. It showed on the clock it had already been 99 years and today was the hundredth day I dreading and wondering how strong my parents might be if they do not have any sickness at all? Which of course I was happy about! But just one thing was bugging me lots of people can’t even get up to their 80s so how did my parents get up to their hundreds?
Then something hit me, not meaning hitting people but meaning I looked up at the clock again and it flashed it is time repeatedly again until my parents looked up for the time. I was so confused what did it mean it was time? Why did it say it was time? How did the clock know it was time? I have so many questions, but you clearly can’t ask a clock anything can you. But at that very moment my mum and dad at the very exact time fainted with me in the middle of the hallway running to get the phone to call the ambulance immediately but, unfortunately, I was too late if only I was quicker. When all the sorrow comes to mind, I think of the clock is this what it meant? Did it mean time up for my parents, how could this happen how could a clock in the middle of the hallway do such a thing to people and how could a clock be so powerful being able to destroy two whole lives in just one go I was miserable. So, I ran home quickly grabbed the clock and… what i did next will shock you!
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Abbygail Fan
The thunderstorm roared as I was walking to my hundredth-year old house. I just couldn’t believe how old it was so many years and that flooding memories always just always must come back to my mind something that I will never forget. I walk around the empty echoing halls thinking it is like a haunted nightmare. It was all because of that old clock, it just had to go so fast, and I was losing my parents, both even worse, it was horrifying, and I felt deep guilt in my bones.
I remember that day the happiest family on earth walking through the hallway’s family walking together. It was then that I realized the clock hanging bright in the middle of our hallway every year that went passing the clock at the bottom would show the years of how long that time had gone by. I decided to look at how many years it took to see how long my parents had, had this clock for and what I saw was horrifying and traumatizing. It showed on the clock it had already been 99 years and today was the hundredth day I dreading and wondering how strong my parents might be if they do not have any sickness at all? Which of course I was happy about! But just one thing was bugging me lots of people can’t even get up to their 80s so how did my parents get up to their hundreds?
Then something hit me, not meaning hitting people but meaning I looked up at the clock again and it flashed it is time repeatedly again until my parents looked up for the time. I was so confused what did it mean it was time? Why did it say it was time? How did the clock know it was time? I have so many questions, but you clearly can’t ask a clock anything can you. But at that very moment my mum and dad at the very exact time fainted with me in the middle of the hallway running to get the phone to call the ambulance immediately but, unfortunately, I was too late if only I was quicker. When all the sorrow comes to mind, I think of the clock is this what it meant? Did it mean time up for my parents, how could this happen how could a clock in the middle of the hallway do such a thing to people and how could a clock be so powerful being able to destroy two whole lives in just one go I was miserable. So, I ran home quickly grabbed the clock and…
On a particular chilly day, I return home to find a small but delicate package waiting on my doorstep, I gingerly picked it up, thinking it was a accident, but the wrapping said it was addressed to my house. I walked in to my room still clutching on to the package and brought it to my desk. I sliced the cardboard box and unwrapped the paper holding the object. In front of me was a watch, a really old one. I picked it up, and studied it closely, it was on a countdown, I had 48 hours on the clock for what, I did not know. I just knew I needed to do whatever I was destined to.
The next day, I studied the watch even closer and on the back the words “Only three things can’t be hidden for long, the sun, the moon and the truth, start at 2345423.134234324” I read the message over and over again, suddenly I had a magnificent idea, those numbers at the back was probably GPS coordinates. I got on to google maps and entered the numbers in to the search bar and out came a picture of a workshop. I peered back to the countdown, I only had 6 hours on the countdown so I had to hurry. I jumped in to my car and started driving towards the workshop, when I arrived nothing seemed to have happened, the workshop was extremely battered and in poor condition. I slowly walked in holding the pocket watch with one hand and holding a torch in the other. I looked around the shop, and noticed a tiny glow from the corner of my eye. I turned and faced the glow, there was some sort of entrance here. There was a trapdoor leading to a separate room. I lifted it up and started crawling through the tunnel. On the other side there was a light in the middle and something ticking other than my stopwatch. A big object that looked like a rocket was in the centre of the room, had a big clock next to it, and on the clock was a countdown, but not just any countdown, it was the same time as my pocket watch. A rumble came from the centre of the room, the object had to be a bomb. I searched the walls for a stop button and a small button was on the wall besides the rocket, I ran towards it, and pressed it, not even looking at the sign.
Then a voice came out of nowhere, “Rocket will self destruct in 5 minutes.”
I crawled out of this room and ran out of the door, towards my car. I jumped on to the seat and drove away as quick as possible. Behind me I heard a deafening boom and the fire was so strong I felt the heat from inside my car. When I got back to my old city and noticed the big clock on the tallest tower, my stopwatch let out a beep beep noise as if it was a alarm. To my surprise, the big clock also chimed, it hadn’t worked for centuries, how did it work now. Then I noticed something I didn’t notice before, in the middle of the big clock, there was a small hole about the size of my pocket watch. Suddenly a idea struck me, I called the local historian and asked him how the clock had stopped working, he told me how some robbers removed the middle of the clock and sold it on the market. I told him, how I might have the middle of the clock and for a moment he was speechless, then he told me to come to his office now. I raced to the museum and walked towards the historian’s office, I opened the door but he wasn’t there instead someone wearing black was there. A muffled cry came from the floor and I saw the historian on the floor tied up and gagged, I was lucky the man hadn’t seen me but the historian had. He motioned towards a long piece of rope on the floor. I grabbed the rope, ran towards the man in black and tied him up from behind. I forced him down and his face went from pale to red when he realised what was happening. I took the gag out of the historian’s mouth and shoved it up the man’s mouth.
The historian seemed to be so shocked that his mouth didn’t work properly.
Finally he uttered the words ,” He is a robber and he intercepted the call between you and me.”
The historian pressed a button on the wall and the police came in a flash, they brought the robber away as the historian studied my pocket watch. His face seemed to light up by the second.
Then he told me “Yes indeed, this is the centre of the clock, and it shall make the clock work again, but please tell me how you found it.”
I told the historian everything that happened and by the time I finished, he was so excited.
He uttered “Please young man can you please give us your watch? ”
I nodded, and he almost did a pirouette in midair.
Tomorrow the crew came and brought huge ladders. One person climbed up to the big clock and sure enough my watch snapped in to position and for the first time in centuries the second hand began moving.
Over the next weeks the civilians was inspired by my desire to find out the unknown, and try and find out more. Now the people step out from their comfy village and try and find out more about the world. Each and every one of them exploring the uncomfortable no matter how big or small helping the village understand more about itself.
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Schol-Y5_WK4 – Nathan Zhou
The wind howled menacingly, beating its powerful gust against the wooden padlock. The boards groaned with agony, their structure threatening to collapse anytime. The stale scent of dust reached my nose, wrinkling it with disgust. I slowly walked to the padlocked iron gate. My hand hesitated over the lock, then, in slow deliberate motion, I swiftly unlocked it. I cautiously stumbled across the footpath, my eyes darting around for any sign of danger that might’ve been around. My mind was swimming with thoughts, its cells were threatening to collapse at any moment, due to the amount of flashback inside it. As I grabbed the doorbell, memories came flooding back to me, filling me with incidents that I thought I’d forgotten.
I studied the doorknob, carefully, tracing my fingers over the intricately carved patterns. It’s handle, originally a bright shade of gold, was now a dull shade of rust. It was uneven in some places, with dents and bumps all over it-marks made by Mother Nature. The door also bore several long scratches, which had turned it from mahogany to a light brown colour. The door and the knob seemed to whisper to me, begging me to open the door, to find out what secrets lay inside. My brain teetered in between, wondering if I should expose myself to the past, or walk away. Squaring my shoulders, and preparing for the worst, I pushed open the door.
I entered a dark, deserted room, which I recognized as my childhood living room. The once lavish place, was now ancient and unmaintained. The once soft couches, had transformed into hard lumps of cotton, and the floor had become prey to spiders, and all sorts of other bugs. I stared around reminiscently, remembering the harsh arguments that used to take place right here in this room. The cold fights about the future, which had led to me running away to the city. I walked down the hallway, gazing at photos and pictures, all testaments to a life I didn’t belong to anymore. It was like I had been erased, and yet as I walked down the halls, the past seemed to follow me, just like my mother had told me. She had said “This house will bring back the deepest of memories.” “It is meant to be a reminder that the past will never leave you.”
I stopped at an old-fashioned grandfather clock, its hands ticking in quite an erratic way. But, it was still a clock, though it had quite a different role compared to others. It was a remembrance that even the oldest memories will never go away, that they would always follow you, haunting your future. Gazing back at it, I remembered my father’s sharp, gruff voice. He had disputed with me many times, pelted me with so many insults, that I couldn’t’ve recalled them all, even if I tried.
As I continued to stare at the old clock, I distinctly heard my father’s voice in my head. “It will never go away.” Accept it!” I never did, but it turned out that my father was right. Once an event happened, it was part of you. Part of your body. Part of your soul. It would always stick around. The air in the room became thick with a muddle of emotions. I stood frozen in place, too scared to move or talk.
The clock continued ticking its eccentric pattern, while I focused on another much more pressing issue. The question hung on my mouth, as though daring it to say it aloud. Could I’ve ever moved on from my hideous past, or would I have to bear its weight until the end of my days?
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Schol-Y5_WK4 -Ethan
The Pickle Jar
In my basement, I search through the shelves of the past. The light of my candle danced like crazy. Just then something fascinated me, as if it stole all of my attention in one menacing swoop. I brought it up stairs, and opened the lights, I placed the object on the table, and examined it closely, it was a glass jar. I interrogated it on the table, its glass so cunning and slippery, its reflection smiled at me sinisterly, and its cap brutely standing there. I searched every corner of my mind yet, I didn’t recall any information of this object.
It was as if it is a mere hallucination, made by me. The clock ticks emphasized the time between me and the mysterious object. I questioned myself if I should keep it sealed or open it. My own curiosity was slowly killing my sanity, bit by bit my sanity melted away. At last, I opened it. The stench of emotions polluted the air, as life’s memories came spurting out. This one powerful jar was connected to all my memories, my mind weaved a tapestry of thought.
I dared myself to look at it, and as my eyes slowly gazed on this jar paining memories came rushing back. My eyes stun like hell, as my body was paralysed, this jar was a sculptor to all my memories. However, I still couldn’t remember what this was my physical body may have frozen. But my mind was intrigued by the history of this jar. It’s mischievous glare yet, again stared emotionlessly at me. I went to see what was inside, and what was inside shocked me. My nerves stopped, my bloodstream hesitated, and my heart bulged.
Memories pained back, memories I didn’t want to see, inside was a knife, dried blood spread across it. The knife only whispers of murder and grief. ” Oh, greed has taken over all of us, it will be the reason to our inevitable doom.” said the note of the left. “Only thee who wield thy knife is truly an evil maniac,” The right note said. And lastly the one embedded in the bottom “Both bad and good are equal in thee, but thy humanity will perish.”
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Schol-Y5_WK4 -luyao Yang
As the birds chirped in the trees and the sun rose smiling at the earth, a young girl called Emma skipped to the front of her home holding onto her shinning keys. She crouched down and placed the keys inside the keyhole with anticipation. Her Aunt had sent a present for her birthday and should be here by now.
Immediately after she saw the glimmer glass reflecting the light Emma had the sense it was finally here. Instead, the reveal made her shocked. Would her aunt really give such a thing to a young child?
The red rose was cover by a glass case with a small letter on the bottom. Emma had no idea of what to do with it so she left it on her bedside table. She did not bother to read the small note as it only had the words: look within the rose. Identify its environment and you will find your prize.
A few days passed until Emma observed that the red flower slowly drooped its arms. The colour had faded and was not in great shape. The little girl decided to understand its meaning. Maybe she needed to look for something that matches the rose to get the key so she can unlock the case of the rose.
For the past few days Emma had been trying to figure out the mystery. As time passed the petals on the rose started to fall in the glass case. Emma’s heart thumped quicker and quicker as the petal had fewer petals. She had searched the whole town for clues but there was not any sense of suspicion.
Maybe she had to go to the haunted house to check for hints. It’s the scariest part of town. No one dares to go in there. The brave has been in there but never came out. Theories of them were that they were trapped in the ghost land, and they were harmed with violence.
She would search in there tomorrow. When she opened the creaky door of the mysterious house, the bats flapped around and came rushing through. They deafening silence filled the room with only the sound of Emma’s footsteps. There was a long dark hallway in front of her with around a dozen rooms to look in. Each door Emma got panicked and told herself, I think I should go back home there is not much in here. Part of her body disagreed with herself, so she continued walking to each door.
At the last door there was a large hole and a painting of what it looked like in the olden days. There was small straw and wood made houses with lots of nature surrounding it. Now due to climate change the number of plants declined. We cannot see the wonders of nature once more until we stop pollution and other factors.
Emma had to get to the painting to get the glass case to open. There was a key on the painting. In the open space there was only a small ladder on the wall. She slowly made her way across the small ladder making a short but steady bridge. Emma’s hands were shaking and there were shivers down her spine.
She was always scared of drops and large crevasses since she was a child. Memories of that time where she tripped of a cliff blew up as a bubble in her mind. She got badly injured. Form that they on, she had the fear of looking down to crevasse and cliffs.
As she got to the other side she was relived. She too the painting and threw it over to the other side like a frisbee. The artwork landed safely waiting for Emma to cross. As she got back to her home, she observed the painting carefully. The straw and wood house were immersed by all sorts of wildlife.
It was a great present the aunt gave Emma but what she was really wanted is to open the case of the rose. When she opened it up, she saw the best thing she could have dreamt of in the centre of the rose. If she had not been in the house of doom, she would have never gotten to this moment. Full of happiness Emma jumped about and celebrated that her aunt fulfilled her dreams.
From that day on, Emma faced her fears and more often liked to solve riddles and problems.
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Schol-Y5_WK4 -Alessia Li
Serena’s breath caught in her throat as the first creak of the attic floorboards echoed through the stillness. Her eyes darted toward the ceiling, her mind racing. The attic had been locked for as long as she could remember—her grandmother’s one untouchable area, a place forbidden even to the most curious of hearts.
Clutching the wooden spoon tightly, she took a tentative step toward the stairs. Each step felt like an eternity, the quiet groan of wood under her weight intensifying her unease. The air grew colder with every step, tinged with the faintest hint of lavender—her grandmother’s favorite smell. How was that possible? The perfume had vanished from the house years ago, along with her grandmother.
As she reached the attic door, she noticed it was slightly opened, the darkness beckoning her. Her hand trembled as it hovered near the doorknob, hesitating. The spoon in her other hand seemed to warm in her grip, as though urging her onward. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The attic was concealed in the shadow, illuminated only by a single shimmer of moonlight streaming through a cracked window. Dust motes swirled in the air, creating an almost heavenly glow. In the center of the room sat an old chest, its brass fittings rusted, but still glinting faintly in the dim light. The chest was identical to the one she remembered from childhood—a relic her grandmother had always guarded fiercely.
On the lid of the chest, there was a note written in her grandmother’s neat handwriting. Serena’s heart skipped a beat as she stepped closer, the words becoming clearer and clearer:
“Not all things are supposed to be forgotten. The past always has a way of finding us when we need it most.”
The spoon grew warmer still, and Serena swore she could hear a faint whisper—a voice both familiar and mysterious. Her grandmother’s voice.
With trembling hands, she placed the spoon on the chest. It clicked into a small, circular indent, as though it had always been there. The chest creaked open on its own, revealing an array of objects: photographs, letters, charms, and a single leather journal. The scent of lavender grew stronger, engulfing her.
She reached for the journal, her fingers brushing against its worn cover. Before she could open it, a sudden gust of wind slammed the attic window shut, plunging the room into darkness. Serena gasped and turned to leave, but the attic door had closed silently behind her.
A faint glow rose from the chest, illuminating the room. As she turned back, the journal was open—its pages blank except for a single sentence that seemed to write itself as she watched:
“The past isn’t finished with you, Serena.”
Behind her, the floorboards creaked again, this time louder, closer. She froze, clutching the journal to her chest. A chill ran down her spine as the shadows around her seemed to deepen, forming into a familiar form.
“Grandma?” Serena whispered.
The figure stepped forward, its features hidden in darkness, but the presence was distinct. The figure raised a hand, pointing to the journal Serena held tightly. “It’s time for you to remember,” the voice whispered.
And then the attic light flickered back to life. But Serena was no longer alone.
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Schol-Y5_WK4 -rainie-jiangoutlook-com