The Invitation She Never Sent
Eleanor never planned to return.
The house stood exactly as she had left it years ago—pristine white, elegant, untouched by time. A paradox of modernity and old-world grandeur, its towering columns seemed to watch her, judging her for the years of absence.
She had sworn never to step foot in it again. But the letter had arrived two weeks ago, sealed in gold, addressed in handwriting she recognized all too well.
Her mother’s.
But that was impossible. Her mother had died in this very house twenty years ago.
Steeling herself, Eleanor stepped inside. The air smelled of gardenias, just as it had on the night of the fire. The chandeliers flickered, though there was no draft. And on the grand staircase, a figure stood—half in shadow, half in the past.
A woman, wearing the same white dress her mother had worn the night she died.
Eleanor took a shaky step forward.
The woman smiled.
“Welcome home, darling. You’re right on time.”
