Talk To Me

Chapter Thirty

Fifteen years ago

The room was bathed in a gentle glow as Leah's eyes fluttered open. The pink curtains hanging by the window cast rosy streaks across the walls, giving the space an ethereal quality. A cool draft slithered against her bare legs, raising goosebumps on her skin as she shifted out of bed. She tugged at the hem of her slightly wrinkled purple nightgown, then peered into the dimly lit corridor.

Silence stretched through the house, thick and heavy. She turned her head left, then right, her small fingers gripping the doorframe as she hesitated. The door across from hers was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness spilling from within. On careful, tiptoed steps, she moved toward it, pressing her fingertips against the worn wooden surface. As she nudged it open, the hinges let out a long, aching creak.

Oliver lay sprawled on his bed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. In the dim light, he looked peaceful, his dark curls a tousled mess against the pillow. Leah took a step inside, her lips parting as if to call his name, but the deep, rumbling voice from downstairs made her freeze.

Her father.

She turned on her heel, heart thumping in her chest. The sound of his voice carried a sharp edge, the kind he only used when speaking to Oliver. Leah's stomach twisted. She knew her brother was still asleep—he hadn't heard anything—but curiosity gnawed at her. Quiet as a whisper, she crept toward the staircase, pausing as she noticed her parents' bedroom door standing wide open, like an invitation or an abandoned space.

She descended five steps, then sat on the fourth, gripping the polished brown railing as she leaned forward. The conversation below grew clearer, voices unraveling like threads of a secret she wasn't meant to pull at.

"I don't understand. How can she just leave like that?" her father's voice was tense, each word cutting through the silence.

"I don't know either, dear," came the familiar, soothing tone of her grandmother.

Leah's fingers tightened around the railing. A surge of emotion—fear, hope, desperation—swirled inside her. Nana was here. An overwhelming urge to rush downstairs and bury herself in her grandmother's warmth gripped her, but she forced herself to stay put. She was nosy, and whatever they were talking about felt too important to interrupt.

"We've been fighting a lot these last three years," James admitted, his voice dropping slightly.

"She said nothing to me," Mary responded softly. "Why were you fighting?"

"About the boy. What else?"

"Oh, James," Mary sighed, her tone laced with gentle reproach. "He's just like any other boy—"

"I can see why you think that," James interrupted, bitterness creeping into his words. "It's your fault he's that way. You know I never believed you. When you said you could see ghosts. And I'm not even sure I believe you now. I just don't get how this even happened."

"I agree that he has a gift because of me because it's inherited—"

"How come Sophia doesn't have it?"

Leah's breath hitched. It was then she realized they weren't talking about her grandmother at all. They were talking about her mother. She had overheard her parents argue before, their voices ricocheting through the walls, but it was always about Oliver.

Her brother, who had spent hours showing her all the frogs in the backyard, who built pillow forts and told her ghost stories in the flickering glow of a flashlight. Her father always spoke about Oliver like he was something broken. But Leah knew the truth. Oliver was the best big brother in the world.