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.
