────date: 2nd april 2025

location: cornwall, england────

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Whispers around the old seapoint chateau often contested whether it was haunted. Its pristine condition, despite the lack of inhabitants, warded off many superstitious folk. Cecilia simply scoffed upon hearing such foolish claims, for that would imply something still lingered there. Any soul brave or foolish enough to push past the heavy mahogany doors would be met with the same, stark realisation – there was nothing here. Cecilia briefly entertained persistant echoes from her past then promptly dismissed them with the wave of her hand. Refusing to paint an portrait of hope was her sole line of defence, so she steeled herself. Yet once she stepped inside, that glass armour her shattered as a sickening stillness enveloped her. There were no traces of hearty laughter that once echoed down the halls. No trace of the warm, savoury scent that often wafted from the kitchen to inform the household that dinner was ready. No trace of the peculiar preferences of her parents, who meticulously decorated every inch of the home. Whether it was at the behest of the Merrick matriarch or due to undying loyalty, the servants swept so diligently that dust refused to cling to anything that filled the space – unlike the loved ones left behind. With each imperfection they smoothed out, a delicate, defining detail vanished. The chip in the porcelain vase that Theodore knocked over one night whilst trying to hide gifts under the fir tree. Smudged paint on the family portrait from when Daphné was too impatient to let it dry – she muttered something about wanting to hold them close. Shoe imprints on the damask rug from where the young Cecilia stood on her father's leather loafers and had her first dance whilst her mother. Old crumbs from treacle tarts that were passed around. So many imprints of precious memories, all lost to time. It was as though all that once was had never been, and the tragic truth was that they would never be again. Tangible traces of tragedy often faded with time, but memory was a ghost that tormented the living even as it slipped away. Though Cecilia Merrick scarcely understood this, she always felt it. Clutching the leatherbound book with one hand, she stared down at the worn photograph. A bright-eyed woman clasped a hand over her mouth whilst sitting beside a red-haired infant who stood slightly taller than half a metre with her small arms stretched out. Slender fingers reached out and traced the cursive ink beneath the photograph that simply read: ‘First Steps!’ Cecilia closed her eyes, hoping that it would spark so much as a still frame of a distant memory – but nothing. Absolutely nothing came to mind. The nostalgic sight she once marvelled at now seemed underwhelmingly ordinary, as though a spell had been lifted. Nails pressed crescent-deep into her palm as tears welled up. It was all too frustrating. What was the point of taking fifty-five photographs of moments that could hardly remember? What was the point if they were not going to be there to look back at them with her? It all felt so meaningless. Her breath hitched as she raised the album over her head, ready to toss it. Yet, after a moment passed, she had failed to follow through. All her strength escaped her as she lowered her arms in defeat. I can’t believe you left me, she thought bitterly. Damp eyelashes matted together as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. Pressing the book to her chest, Cecilia surrendered to a quiet sob and cradled the remnants of her childhood. A cold hand then pressed on her shoulder, and she froze. Her lips pursed as she turned to meet the icy gaze that stared down at her. Sympathy flickered in the older woman’s eyes, albeit for a fleeting moment. It was so brief that Cecilia thought it was a trick of the light. The elder’s stare hardened as she extended a handkerchief. Neither of them broke the silence. Words were not necessary; they seldom were between the two. As Cecilia patted her tears dry, a silent understanding passed between them; Merricks endured, lest she forget. Once the time to bid the chateau farewell drew near, a serene smile graced Cecilia’s lips. She slowly began to accept the bittersweet truth: this house was no longer a home. There was nothing left for her here. Though she scarcely remembered the first steps she took in the manor, she would never forget her last.

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────word count: 737