Chasing Whispers | Red

Prologue

Amplewood, 2007.

In the cozy town of Amplewood, young Amara reveled in the simple joys of childhood, surrounded by toys and backyard adventures. However, today's departure from play to chores was not a novel experience for her. Her small frame, usually immersed in play, had grown accustomed to shouldering the weight of responsibilities. Amidst the familiar toys and adventures, a recurring theme emerged—the transition from carefree play to the solemnity of duties. Within this shift, the constant presence of her parents' attention remained, a cherished constant in the evolving landscape of Amara's childhood.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow across Amplewood street, Amara's earnest eyes were fixated on the driveway. She stood on the couch, a small figure, as the fading sunlight brushed Amara's brown skin, leaving a soft, warm glow. From this elevated perch, she yearned for her mother's arrival, the anticipation hanging thick in the air. The distant hum of her father's snores drifted from the bedroom, echoing the exhaustion that permeated the house — a weariness born from either nightly escapades or an unspoken strain in their relationship. The atmosphere was thick with both the fading daylight and the weight of unspoken emotions.

The void in her heart deepened, as each passing moment heightened the emptiness for attention and love.

"Amara?"

The voice of Leila, the house maid, echoed from somewhere in the house. Amara, looked over her shoulder, as the housemaid's footsteps reverberated in the corridors, getting closer to where Amara was.

Amara withdrew from her position on the couch, allowing her small feet to meet the washed-out, dark grey carpet that adorned the living room.

Leila emerged at the doorway with a disapproving look casted towards Amara, hands tucked behind her back. Amara looked up with big brown eyes, a mix of curiosity and innocence in them.

The housemaid's apron, soiled from dinner preparations, carried a tear on the shoulder, and torn large pockets on the side of her apron, displayed signs of constant wear.
Her braids were in a bun, with a few loose strands falling over her forehead. The exhaustion on the maid's face hidden to amaras understanding.

"What are you up to?" She sternly asked Amara. Amara glanced back at the window

Amara, with a hint of apprehension in her gaze, responded softly, "Just waiting for Mama."

Leila's stern expression softened momentarily, understanding the longing in Amara's eyes. "Your mother will be home soon, child. But chores await us now. Let's tidy up together," she said, extending a calloused hand toward Amara.

Leila's hands, marked by years of hard work, guided Amara through the chores. The sound of their movements intertwined with the echoes of conversation.

In the quiet moments, Amara, wrestled with worry about her mother's delayed arrival and the weariness settling in. The connection between the housemaid and the young girl was marked by a practical routine, lacking the closeness that extended beyond necessary tasks—house chores, homework, or dinner discussions. Amara, kept sending glances at Leila, a silent plea to share the burden of her heavy heart with someone. Meanwhile, the father remained oblivious, immersed in the uninterrupted slumber.

Once they tidied, Amara sat at the dinner table, eating quietly alone as Leila ate hers in the kitchen. Amara, poked at her meal, her mind elsewhere.

As the night embraced Birchwood, Amara, now clad in pajamas, nestled against Leila's side on her bed. The disapproving look from earlier had transformed into a soft smile. The distant hum of her father's snores continued, as Leila read her story.

Later, as Amara succumbed to sleep, the night took an unexpected turn. She woke to find herself in an eerily silent, dark room, and the side of her bed where Leila had sat earlier, empty.
An unsettling symphony of arguments emanated from her parents' bedroom across the whole way, and disturbing sounds of items breaking.

Amara, feeling the weight of the turmoil, zoned out for a moment. Confusion turned to tears, and her shoulders shook. She tucked deeply into her duvet and closed her eyes.

A door slammed and fading footsteps descended the stairs. The main door echoed with a resounding slam, leaving Amara alone in the aftermath.

Her tears, although fresh, were not unfamiliar with the chaos. The weight of unspoken fears and distress enveloped her once again, and she continued to cry, the pain echoing in the silent night.

In the solitude of her sorrow, Amara, still trembling, eventually succumbed to exhaustion. Sleep claimed her tear-stained face, but the night held onto its secrets, leaving her nestled in a cocoon of restless dreams and unspoken fears.