Echoes of the past
Vivian and I sat at the worn kitchen table, the note between us. “What truth could he mean?” she murmured, her voice hollow. I sifted through memories, through whispers of the past that I had thought were long buried. Each word on the note seemed to pulse with a threat, promising the upending of our lives. The past, it seemed, was not content to lie dormant and was clawing its way into our present with vehemence.