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Josephine draws in a long, steadying breath, hoping it will calm her frayed nerves.
Her aunt's home nestles in the countryside of a quaint little town, finally coming into view.
The sprawling house stands amidst a lush landscape, the foliage teeming with vitality. No fence encloses the property, prompting Josie to tread the narrow path leading to the entrance.
Her anxiety threatens to overwhelm her, manifesting in trembling hands and a quivering frame.
Doubt clouds her mind. Perhaps disappearing would spare her aunt the pain. Perhaps it is the kindest choice.
Halting midway along the path, Josephine grapples with her resolve. She can't give up, not when she needs answers, needs resources, however selfish the admission feels. And there is a yearning, buried deep, to unearth her parents' story through Nyla.
A sharp sting brings her back to the moment, blood welling from a nail she's been anxiously picking.
With sheer determination, Josie forces herself forward, step by step.
The house, weathered yet grand, speaks of wealth. Ivy tendrils creep up its walls, adding to its aged charm.
Ascending the porch steps, Josie finds herself just inches from the front door.
A hush envelops the surroundings. Is anyone home?
Regardless, she wraps on the door, her heart pounding in anticipation.
~~~
Nyla Jones POV.
Nyla sinks back onto her sofa with a heavy sigh, reaching for the oversized glass of wine she has poured herself moments before a knock disrupts her solitude.
Frustration etches lines on her face as she closes her eyes, exhaling sharply.
"If that's my husband forgetting something again..." she mutters under her breath, her tone laced with irritation.
"Coming!" Nyla calls out, setting down her glass with a resigned thud before rising from the sofa and making her way to the door.
She plasters a forced smile on her face, just in case it isn't her husband, and swings the door open.
The sight that greets her steals the breath from her lungs, a choked gasp escaping her lips.
Standing before her is a girl, a striking resemblance to her late sister, Serena, almost uncanny. The differences are there – darker hair, darker eyes – but the essence, the shape of her features, echoes Serena's.
The girl fidgets nervously, hands hidden behind her back.
Josephine... it couldn't be. Josephine is gone. Serena is gone. Aspen is gone.
"Hello," the young girl's voice breaks through the silence. The young girl clears her throat, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm Josephine," she says, her words trailing off into the weighty silence.
