Tonight, the house feels different. The air is thick with anticipation, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. I spent the day rereading the letters and the old diaries, piecing together the story of the girl with the red umbrella and the promise she made so long ago.

As the sun set, I felt a pull toward the hidden room. The window was open, letting in the cool night air. Moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating the journal on the desk. I sat down and began to write, my hand guided by a sense of purpose I can't explain.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I turned, expecting to see nothing, but there she was—the girl with the red umbrella, standing in the doorway. She smiled, and for the first time, I felt no fear. She crossed the room and sat beside me, her presence warm and familiar.

We talked for what felt like hours, though I can't remember the words. It was as if we were speaking without speaking, sharing memories and hopes and regrets. She told me about the promise she made to protect our family, to keep the secrets safe until the right person came along.

Before she left, she pressed the red umbrella into my hands. "It's your turn now," she whispered. "Promise me you'll remember." I nodded, tears in my eyes, and watched as she faded into the moonlight.

I don't know what comes next, but I feel ready. The house is quiet, but it no longer feels empty. I made a promise tonight—to remember, to protect, and to keep searching for the truth. The story isn't over. It's just beginning.