"The past doesn't knock—it breaks in."
Ava stood across the street from the old townhouse, its brick facade dulled by time and shadows. Waverly Place looked just like she remembered from Ben's stories—quiet, unassuming, and yet there was something uneasy in the silence. The autumn wind rustled the leaves, casting long, crooked shadows onto the pavement.
She clutched the folded map Ben had left her inside the flash drive folder. It wasn't much—just a hand-drawn sketch of the townhouse floor plan, with a red circle drawn in the library room. The word "Cassandra" was scribbled in small, rushed handwriting beside it.
Ava inhaled deeply. She crossed the street and walked up the steps. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the buzzer. Nothing. She tried the doorknob. Locked. But when she reached into her coat pocket, she found an old, unfamiliar key. It turned with a reluctant click.
Inside, the house smelled of dust and forgotten memories. Dim light filtered through drawn curtains. Ava stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Her footsteps echoed as she moved past the narrow hallway into the living room. The walls were lined with old photographs, books, and a large fireplace.
She made her way to the library. The door creaked open. Floorboards groaned beneath her feet. Ava paused. Something about the air shifted—it was colder here, heavier.
The room was filled with shelves of books. She scanned the space, eyes locking onto the antique desk in the corner. She opened the drawer. Empty. Another. Dusty papers. Finally, the third drawer—there, tucked beneath old receipts and envelopes, was a small black box.
Her heart pounded. Inside the box was a cassette tape, labeled in smudged pen: "Cassandra. March 17."
Ava didn't own a tape player. But she remembered something. Caroline had an old recorder she used during their internship days. It was probably still in her Boston apartment.
A noise.
Ava froze.
Footsteps. Upstairs.
She wasn't alone.
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