Today I found a small, locked drawer in the old writing desk in the hidden room. The key was taped to the underside, as if someone wanted it to be found but only by the right person. My hands shook as I turned the lock and pulled the drawer open.

Inside was a diary, its cover cracked and faded. The first page was dated nearly fifty years ago. The handwriting was different from the other journal, but something about the way the words curved across the page felt familiar, almost like a memory I couldn't quite reach.

I spent the afternoon reading. The entries were full of longing and secrets, stories of a girl who felt out of place in her own family, who saw things others couldn't. She wrote about the red umbrella, about shadows in the hallway, about a promise she was afraid to break.

As I read, I realized the girl in the diary was my great aunt—the same girl with the red umbrella. Her words echoed my own thoughts, my own fears. It was as if she had written them for me, or maybe for herself, hoping someone would understand one day.

I closed the diary as the sun set, feeling a strange sense of comfort and connection. I'm not alone in this house, not really. The stories of those who came before me are here, waiting to be remembered.