I spent the morning in the attic, sorting through boxes of old linens and forgotten holiday decorations. I was about to give up when I found a small wooden chest tucked behind a stack of dusty books. It was heavier than it looked, and the lock had long since rusted away.

Inside, I found bundles of letters tied with faded blue ribbon. The paper was thin and brittle, the ink faded to a soft brown. Each envelope was addressed to me, but the dates were from decades before I was born. My hands trembled as I opened the first one.

The letters were written in a careful, looping script. They spoke of longing and regret, of secrets kept and promises broken. Some were confessions, others were apologies. A few were simply stories, memories of childhood summers and rainy afternoons spent reading by the window.

As I read, I realized the letters were from my great aunt, the girl with the red umbrella. She wrote to me as if she knew I would find them one day, as if she was waiting for me to understand her story. Each letter felt like a conversation across time, a bridge between her world and mine.

I spent hours reading, losing track of time as the sun moved across the sky. By the time I finished the last letter, I felt a strange sense of peace. The house felt warmer, less haunted. The secrets that once weighed so heavily on me now felt like a gift, a connection to the past I never knew I needed.

Tonight, I placed the letters back in the chest and slid it under my bed. I know I'll read them again, whenever I need to remember that I'm not alone. The girl with the red umbrella is still here, in the words she left behind.