The first letter came wrapped in wax paper, tied with faded twine. No sender. No address. Just the words: For the Hollow.
Lyra unfolded the note carefully, breath catching as ink bled softly across yellowed parchment:
> I was ten when my sister vanished in those woods. I never stopped dreaming of her eyes in the dark. But last week, I walked past your gates and heard music. Not the kind that curses. The kind that heals. Thank you.
There was no signature.
She kept the letter in a wooden box beneath her bed—joining the others. Stories from the villagers. Apologies. Small reckonings. Each one a brick in the new foundation the Hollow was building—not from stone and spellwork, but from truth.
---
Word had spread.
Not of horror, but of healing.
The estate had once drawn only the curious or the cursed. Now it welcomed the grieving, the lost, and the wondering. Lyra opened the garden paths. She let the wind blow through the open windows. She left the door unlocked.
And still, she never felt afraid.
---
Elias had built a bench beneath the ash tree. The same tree where Lyra had first seen the sigils, now stripped of its carvings. It stood tall but gentler, like it no longer bore the weight of something unnatural.
They sat together often, watching the light change as dusk came creeping through the branches.
"Do you miss the city?" she asked one evening.
Elias leaned back. "Only the coffee."
Lyra laughed softly.
"I used to think the Hollow would devour me," she said. "Now I think it made space for me."
"You gave it a soul," Elias said. "Not the kind it stole. One it earned."
---
Sometimes, Lyra would find traces of what had come before.
A crack in the floor shaped like a rune. A whisper caught in a mirror's corner. A soft thrum beneath the stairwell when the moon was full.
But none of it frightened her.
The house didn't mean harm anymore. It was just… remembering.
She didn't try to erase the remnants. She cleaned around them. Let them stay. Let them speak when they needed to.
---
One morning, a child appeared at the gate.
She couldn't have been older than eight, wearing mismatched socks and holding a book like a shield.
Lyra met her on the path.
"Are you the girl who lives here?" the child asked, peering past Lyra to the manor.
"Yes," Lyra said gently. "Are you lost?"
The girl shook her head. "My brother said this house eats people."
Lyra smiled. "It doesn't anymore."
The girl seemed to consider that. "Can I see the garden?"
Lyra nodded. "Only if you promise not to pick the moonflowers."
---
They walked together among the blooms. The girl pointed out every petal, every bug. She whispered to the vines like they were old friends. At the end, she gave Lyra her book—a battered fairytale collection—and asked her to keep it safe until she came back.
"I think the Hollow will like it," she said.
Lyra promised she would keep it in the library.
---
That night, she placed the book on the shelf beside her own writings.
The Hollow was quiet.
Not empty.
Not watching.
Just breathing.
And in that breath, Lyra felt the weight of the past settling—not pressing her down, but anchoring her.
She was no longer the heir to a curse.
She was the one who stayed.
So others didn't have to.