It was a small, ornate metal locket, tarnished with age, and a tightly folded piece of thin, brittle paper. The whispers, which had been so clear moments before, faded into a soft hum again, as if their message had been delivered.
Ivy's hands trembled as she opened the locket. Inside, barely visible beneath the grime, were two tiny, faded photographs: one of a young woman with bright, hopeful eyes – undeniably Amara. And beside her, a face Ivy instantly recognized, though younger, her features softened by youth and a genuine smile she rarely saw now: Agnes.
A cold dread seeped into Ivy's bones. The whispers hadn't been a figment of her imagination. They were leading her, step by chilling step, to the heart of the family's darkest secrets. And Agnes, her own grandmother, was not just a protector of the past, but an integral part of its harrowing tale.