Sarah’s phone buzzed at 3:47 AM. The message was from her sister’s number, but Emma had been dead for six months.
“Check the attic. I left something for you.”
Heart hammering, Sarah crept upstairs. The attic ladder groaned under her weight. In the corner, behind boxes of Christmas decorations, sat a small wooden chest she’d never seen before.
Inside: dozens of letters, all addressed to her in Emma’s handwriting. The first was dated three days after the funeral.
“I know you’re reading this and thinking I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. But I needed you to know that leaving you wasn’t a choice. The cancer took everything, but it couldn’t take this—my love for you, written down, sealed up, waiting.”
Sarah’s tears blurred the words. Her phone buzzed again.
“Happy birthday, little sister. There’s a letter for every year until you’re ninety.”
Some ghosts refuse to leave.