Lost & Found

ANCHOR TO MY SHIP

Days turned into weeks, and I gradually settled into the routine of school. Alyssa's friendship was a constant source of comfort, her bubbly personality a stark contrast to the dark, oppressive atmosphere at home. Uncle Cyrus continued to be a looming presence, his watchful eyes never far from my thoughts. But with each passing day, I found small moments of respite in the corridors of Blackwood Academy.

One afternoon, as Alyssa and I sat together in the library, she leaned in conspiratorially. "Isla, there's something I want to show you. It's a bit of a secret, though."

I looked at her curiously. "What is it?"

"There's a spot on the school grounds that not many people know about," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "It's a great place to get away from everything and just relax. Want to see it?"

I nodded, intrigued. "Sure, I'd love to."

Alyssa led me through the school, down a series of winding paths that eventually brought us to a small, secluded garden hidden behind a tall hedge. The space was filled with blooming flowers and a small bench under a cherry blossom tree.

"It's beautiful," I said, taking in the serene surroundings.

"I know, right?" Alyssa said, smiling. "I come here when I need to think or just get away from everything. It's my little sanctuary. And now, it's yours too."

We sat on the bench, enjoying the peaceful silence. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a sense of calm. Alyssa's friendship was a lifeline, a reminder that there was still goodness and light in the world, even amidst the shadows.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the garden, I realized that I had found something precious at Blackwood Academy—hope. And with that hope, I knew I could face whatever came next, even if it meant confronting the darkness that lingered in the corners of my life.

In the days that followed, life settled into a quiet rhythm in Uncle Cyrus's house. Each morning, I would wake to the solemn stillness of the house, the absence of my parents a palpable ache in my heart. Uncle Cyrus was often away, his mysterious errands keeping him occupied for hours on end.

I spent my days exploring the expansive grounds surrounding the house, finding solace in the whispering trees and the gentle rustling of leaves. The house itself held echoes of a past I struggled to grasp—a past that Uncle Cyrus seemed reluctant to share.

Uncle Cyrus became increasingly distant and secretive about their deaths after the incident . He would disappear for hours on end, returning with a stoic silence that only deepened the mystery surrounding his actions. Each time I broached the subject of my parents' investigation or the circumstances surrounding their accident, he would deflect my questions with vague answers or change the topic altogether.

One evening, as I sat in the dimly lit library poring over old case files, Uncle Cyrus entered the room with an air of quiet determination. His footsteps were barely audible against the worn carpet as he approached the desk where I worked, his expression unreadable.

"Any progress?" he asked, his voice low and measured.

I glanced up from the documents spread out before me, frustration mingling with concern. "I can't make sense of half of these," I admitted, my voice tinged with frustration. "There are so many gaps, so many unanswered questions."

Uncle Cyrus nodded solemnly, his gaze distant. "Your parents were meticulous investigators," he acknowledged, his voice tinged with a hint of admiration. "But they were also cautious. They knew the risks."