The worst part isn't the whispers anymore. It's watching Mom and Dad try so hard to fix something they don't understand.

Last week, Dad brought home a new wooden horse. "Look what old Henrik carved," he said. "Just like the one you loved when you were little." The paint was still fresh - red and gold, my favorite colors. I set it on my shelf and went back to my homework. Later that night, I pressed my ear to their door, catching fragments of whispered conversation about "signs" and "changes."

Mom bakes honey cakes now, tells old stories by the fire. She even let me skip my chores twice this week. This morning, she brushed my hair, humming that lullaby from when I was small. I caught her reflection in the mirror, quickly looking away when our eyes met.

"Your turn!" Maya bounces in front of me, clutching her own brush. "Make it pretty like Mom does!" Her blue ribbon hangs loose, dirt smudged across her cheek from morning adventures.

I shift on our doorstep. Autumn paints the world in reds and golds. The morning air carries woodsmoke from the village hearths and Mrs. Hedda's baking bread. A few early fallen leaves skitter across the path, making that dry rustling sound that used to mean nothing. Now it reminds me of whispers.

"Please?" Maya waves the brush. "You promised!"

"Alright, alright." She plops down in front of me. Her curls tangle with leaves and grass from her morning expedition. As I start brushing, she talks about the robin's nest she found, the funny cloud that looked like a dragon, all the little things that make up her world.

"You're getting better," Mom says from the doorway. I turn. I hadn't heard her approach. "Your sister's hair doesn't look like a bird's nest anymore when you're done."

When I look up, she stands watching us. Dad calls that her "mother-hen face." The morning light catches the silver in her dark hair - when did those appear? Were they always there?

"Julie's the best at brushing," Maya reaches back to pat my knee. "Even better than you, Mom! She never pulls, and she tells the best stories while she does it. Like the one about the butterfly girl who could talk to clouds!"

Mom laughs. "Is that so? Well, when you're done being a better hairdresser than me, Julie, could you help me in the storage room? I need to sort through some old things."

I nod, finishing Maya's curls. Mom heads inside. The stairs creak under her steps.

"All done," I tell Maya, tying off her braid with the ribbon. "Go show Mrs. Hedda how pretty you look. Maybe she'll give you a piece of fresh bread."

Maya races off, her braid swinging. I watch until she disappears around the corner, then follow Mom upstairs. Each step feels heavy.

The storage room stays dark despite the morning light filtering through its single small window. Dust motes dance in the weak sunlight. Mom kneels by a particular floorboard, half-hidden in shadow. The wood groans as she pries it up, revealing a small space beneath.

"I've kept this hidden since..." She reaches into the darkness and pulls out an old chest, its dark wood marked with strange symbols along its rusted iron fittings. "It was your grandmother's."

My breath catches. We never talk about Grandmother. Ever. It's like there's a hole in our family history where she should be.

"Sit with me?" Mom pats the floor beside her. "I've been thinking a lot lately. About you. About... everything that's happening."

I sink down beside her. Through the floorboards, Dad's axe keeps steady rhythm in the yard.

"We've tried everything," Mom says. "Your father with his toys, me with my hovering... we've even talked about sending you to your aunt in Millbrook, though your father won't hear of it." She opens the chest. "But maybe what you need isn't something new. Maybe it's something old. Something that should never have been hidden away."

The hinges creak. Inside, among faded cloth and dried flowers, lies a small book bound in worn leather. Symbols like those on the chest mark its cover, softened by time.

"Your grandmother's journal," Mom says, lifting it out. "One of them, at least."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"One of them?" The words escape before I can stop them. "There are others?"

Mom traces the symbols on the chest's lid. "Your grandmother... she used to sit in the garden at night, writing in these journals. Page after page. Sometimes she'd stop in the middle of a sentence, look up at nothing, and start writing faster." She picks up a dried flower from the chest - something dark purple I've never seen before. "She grew strange plants too. Not like Ursa's herbs. These ones only bloomed at night."

"What happened to her?" The question I've never dared ask before.

Mom sets the flower down. "People didn't understand her. When things went wrong - animals getting sick, bad weather, children having nightmares - they'd look at her. They said she talked to things that weren't there." She touches a small brass key hanging at her neck. "The night she disappeared, I found all her journals stacked on the garden bench. Every page filled with warnings about..." She stops.

"About what?"

"About the Upside Down. About whispers in the dark. About a price that would come due." Mom pulls the key from her neck. This is the only one I have. I thought... I thought if you didn't see it, it would stop. That you wouldn't..." Her fingers close around the key.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Your grandmother said her own mother heard them too. The whispers. And her mother before her. Apparently I'm the only one who doesn't consistently hear them." Mom opens a small compartment in the chest's lid with the key. "She left something else. Said it was for the next one who could hear them."

She pulls out a small cloth bundle. Inside lies a crystal, black as night but somehow still gleaming. Just looking at it makes the air feel strange.

"I should have known when you started talking about the whispers like that. That's how it started with her too - hearing things others couldn't." Mom rewraps the crystal. "I thought if I never showed you these things, never spoke of her... but that's not how it works, is it?"

I touch the wrapped crystal through the cloth. Even through the fabric, it feels alive somehow. Like it's been waiting.

"The night she disappeared," Mom continues, "she left a note. Just one line: 'When the whispers come for her, give her the truth. All of it.'" She places the bundle in my hands. "I thought I could protect you by hiding it. I was wrong. Whatever's happening now - maybe you need to understand where it started."

"Did...did she ever come back?"

Mom stands and goes to the window. "Some of the villagers said they saw her walking into the forest at dawn. Others said she was talking to something no one else could see. Sven organized a search, but..." She presses her hand against the glass. "All they found was her last journal, the one I kept. It was open to a new page with just two words: 'He's coming.'"

I clutch the journal tighter. "Who was coming?"

"I don't know. But the next day, Sven became village leader. And things... changed." Mom turns back to me. "Julie, whatever's happening now, whatever Sven told you to keep secret - just remember you're not alone in this. Whatever your grandmother saw, whatever she was warning us about... maybe now we can finally understand."

"Sven says it's safer if no one knows," I bow my head.

Mom wraps her arms around me. "Oh, my brave girl."

The words blur before my eyes. I turn away, but she's already seen. My shoulders shake. All the nights lying awake, listening to whispers no one else can hear. All the fear of ending up like Grandmother - alone, lost, talking to shadows. All the pretending to be strong.

Mom pulls me closer. "Let it out, sweetheart."

I press my face into her shoulder. The sobs come then, deep and raw, like they've been waiting forever to break free. Not pretty crying like in Maya's storybooks - this is ugly and real, with hiccups and gasps and probably snot, but Mom just holds me tighter.

"I don't want to be like her," I choke out between sobs. "I don't want to disappear."

Mom rocks me slowly, like she did when I was little. "You won't. You're not alone like she was. You have us."

I clutch her dress, feeling small and scared and somehow safer than I have in weeks. When the sobs finally quiet, Mom wipes my face with her sleeve.

"Read it when you're ready," she says softly. "And Julie? Whatever you discover, whatever secrets you need to keep from others - remember that in this house, with us, you're always safe to be exactly who you are."

I hug her, the journal and crystal between us. Then I run to my room and hide them under my mattress, where Maya won't find them during her treasure hunts.

Later, I'll read more.I'll wonder about the journals, why mom kept only this one. Later, I'll try to understand what my grandmother knew, what secrets she took to her grave.

But for now, I sit on my bed, lighter than I've felt in days. Because even though I still can't tell them everything, Mom and Dad know something's wrong - and they love me anyway.

Through my window, Maya's voice carries from the garden, showing off her braid. No secrets touch her world yet. I hope it stays that way.

I touch the lump under my mattress where the journal and crystal hide. Soon I'll learn what my grandmother knew. But right now, I just want to listen to my sister laugh, pretending for a moment that everything is normal again.

Even though I know it never will be.