The storm had passed hours ago, leaving behind only a soft flurry that dusted the windows like a memory refusing to settle. The world outside was wrapped in silence, the kind that only came after the wind had screamed itself hoarse. Inside the house, everything had gone still. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a slow, pulsing glow, casting faint golden light across the wooden walls, doing little to ward off the cold seeping through the floorboards.
Alicia sat in her room, cross-legged on the unmade bed, the package nestled in her lap like something ancient and sacred. The sheets around her were tangled, disturbed, a reflection of the storm that now churned inside her rather than out. The scent of aged parchment and old cedar hung in the air as she carefully untied the brittle twine. Her fingers were pale with cold but steady.
The journal was the first thing she touched.
