The cold air bit at my cheeks as I stood in front of my parents’ old house. It had been empty for five years since they vanished without a word, yet something was off.
The street was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you want to hold your breath.
I hesitated by the porch, peering through the dusty windows.
Inside, Christmas decorations still twinkled, lights strung around the living room, a wreath hanging on the door.
“Why would anyone bother decorating a place that’s been abandoned for half a decade?” I muttered to myself, feeling the prickle of an uncomfortable sensation that refused to budge.
The house seemed frozen in time, a snapshot of a Christmas that never ended.
It was as if the past was holding on, refusing to let go.
I tried to shake the feeling, but it clung to me like the chill in the air.
In my daily life, I forced normality upon myself.
I worked long hours at a publishing company, drowning in deadlines that left no room for ghosts or mysteries.
My manager, apathetic to my concerns, brushed aside any mention of my family’s estate.
The estate lawyer was no help either, always vague and dismissive about the house’s fate.
The decorations inside the house were either a quiet defiance or an invitation.
An invitation to what, I had no idea.
I felt the pressure rising, like a pot about to boil over.
I knew I had to face it, but the fear of reopening that door, both literally and figuratively, held me back.
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