Chapter 3 - The Artifact of Ghosts
A sudden, violent tremor rippled through Evelyn’s hands. She crouched down, the heavy velvet of her gown pooling into the mud water on the floor, completely disregarding the shocked gasps of her guests. The polished facade of Lady Ashford evaporated, leaving behind a woman confronted by an impossible ghost.
Her manicured fingers picked up the locket. The silver was freezing to the touch, yet it felt like a burning coal in her palm. With a frantic flick of her thumb, she forced open the rusted latch. The tiny frame popped open to reveal a faded, round photograph.
It was a baby, barely a few months old, with wide, dark eyes and a distinct mark on her left cheekbone.
Evelyn’s vision blurred. The walls of the ballroom seemed to buckle under an immense, invisible pressure. Twenty years of constructed reality—twenty years of telling herself that her past was buried, that the tragedy had been finalized, that the fire had consumed everything—collapsed into dust. Her hands gripped the little girl’s narrow shoulders, pulling the child up from the floor with a frantic, terrifying force.
May you like
"Where did you get this?" Evelyn demanded, her voice cracking, stripped of all regal formality, reduced to a desperate, ragged rasp. She shook the girl slightly, her eyes searching the dirt-smeared face for answers. "Where did you get this?!"
The child sobbed uncontrollably, her small chest heaving as she cowered under the intense glare. "My... my mother gave it to me..." she wept, her voice trembling like a reed in a storm. "Her name is Sarah."
