Author: Keisha Hartley

Amara’s head knocked against the cold car window, jolting her awake. Her fingers were numb from clutching the long black case on her lap. The Uber driver sped down the winding path unbothered by the rain. Ahead, the dark spires of her grandmother’s home jutted above the crest of the driveway hill the Corolla struggled to climb, tires sliding on the slick gravel.

Jorge, she reminded herself as she checked the app, grunted.
“I don’t know what business you have here, Miss, but do it quick. If you’re thinking of asking me to wait, the answer’s no. I don’t mess with that freaky shit.”

“I won’t.” Her voice cracked. She hadn’t spoken in days.

Jorge pulled to a sharp stop in the circular drive. She managed a weak “Thank you,” but he was already gone. She stood alone in front of the massive house, rain dripping into every uncomfortable seam of her clothes.

“Hey, Grandma,” she whispered toward the empty windows as she dragged her suitcases up the steep wooden steps. She fumbled through her wool coat for the heavy set of keys mailed to her with her grandmother’s will. Dust clouds rose as she shoved the door open and pulled her things inside.

She had always done what she was told. Her parents demanded it: classes, sports, instruments, clothes, friends—every decision theirs, never hers. Now they were gone. Everyone she loved was gone. And still she obeyed. Her grandmother’s will had been clear: if her parents were dead and she herself had passed, Amara was to inherit and live in her summer home.

She remembered it fondly. Running through gardens, gathering flowers her grandmother pointed out. Never caring what the neighbors whispered about shadows moving where they shouldn’t. Here, she had felt free. But now, she felt numb. Her muffled sobs echoed in the hollow rooms. She needed to find a place to sleep. Cleaning could wait.

A sharp clang paralyzed her. From the kitchen.

Heart hammering, she crept in. The room looked unchanged; the same weathered wood table where she and her grandmother spent hours cooking, pots bubbling, laughter rising with the steam, scent of dried flowers and medicinal herbs all around.

On the stove, a pot simmered. Heavy soup spoon on the floor. She edged closer. The warm, savory scent of pumpkin soup washed over her. Exactly as she remembered. But how?

A thin shiver rippled up her neck as a soft humming filled the room. A familiar tune—the first song she had ever played live on the flute. Martinu Sonata. The humming cut off right before her favorite part.

“No, no, no…” Panic rising, she ran back to the door, shoving her suitcases, looking for her black case. She snapped it open. Inside lay the one thing her parents had left her. A vintage flute.

She pressed it to her lips and picked up where the humming faded.

The sound returned, now weaving with hers.

Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks.

She wasn’t alone.