Echoes and Embers
The door slammed shut with such force that dust rained from the rafters. Elena spun, the velvet cloth falling from her hand. Her heart pounded against her ribs as the lantern's light flickered dangerously, casting the attic in restless shadows.
She stepped quickly to the door and jiggled the handle. Locked.
"No. No, no, no."
She pressed her ear to the wood. Nothing. The hallway beyond was silent.
With a frustrated exhale, Elena turned back toward the painting. It leaned quietly in its place, now fully exposed to the dim attic light. The image was as still and elegant as before—two women, side by side, in matching midnight gowns. Their expressions unreadable. But there was something… different now.
The shadow between them.
It had shifted.
Where before it had been an indistinct smudge, now it resembled the faint outline of a third figure, hovering behind them, barely discernible.
Elena took a step back.
She wasn't superstitious. Logic, training, and years of solitude had taught her to trust facts. But this? This was something else. She moved toward the painting, hand trembling, and reached out to touch the canvas.
Cold.
Not just the chill of oil and canvas—but a biting cold, unnatural, as if it had been pulled from a frozen lake.
Suddenly, the lantern extinguished with a hiss.
Darkness swallowed the attic.
Elena gasped, stepping back into something solid—an old trunk—nearly tripping. She scrambled for her phone, but the battery had died earlier that afternoon during a long call with the textile supplier. Of course.
For a few minutes, she stood still. Just breathing. Listening.
Then, slowly, the attic door creaked open.
Soft, deliberate.
Faint light spilled in from the hallway.
Someone stood at the threshold.
"Elena?" a voice called.
She blinked. "Valentina?"
Her sister stepped into the attic, her form silhouetted against the stairwell light. "I figured I'd find you here."
Elena exhaled, her pulse still racing. "Did you lock the door?"
Valentina frowned. "No. It's barely even got a latch. Why would I lock you in?"
"I didn't imagine it."
Valentina's eyes drifted to the painting. "What's that?"
Elena swallowed. "It's a portrait. Of us."
Valentina moved closer, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. Her breath caught.
"Is this...?"
"Signed by Mom," Elena confirmed. "Dated 1995."
Valentina shook her head slowly. "That's not possible. We were children then. This—this looks like us now."
"I know."
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the estate's old wiring somewhere in the walls.
Valentina turned her attention to the shadowed figure between them. "Was this always here?"
"No," Elena said. "It changed."
"You're sure?"
Elena nodded. "Positive. I saw it before. The shadow was smaller. Less defined."
Valentina looked uneasy, which for her was rare. She stepped back from the painting, arms folded.
"Our mother never painted after 1995," she said. "Not after the fire in the old studio."
Elena blinked. "What fire?"
Valentina hesitated. "Dad never told you?"
"No."
Valentina sighed. "There was an accident. One of her tapestries caught fire—chemicals in the dyes, maybe. She never spoke of it again. She locked the studio. And after she died…" Her voice trailed off.
"…Dad had everything sealed."
Valentina nodded.
The sisters stood side by side now, staring at the portrait of their older selves painted decades before those faces had existed.
"Do you think she knew something?" Elena asked quietly. "About us?"
Valentina didn't answer right away. Then: "She always said we'd be stronger together.