The single-story structure stood with a quiet dignity, its dark grey wooden exterior worn by time and weather. Faint cracks ran through the planks, telling stories of seasons past. A steep, narrow stairwell led up to the attic, and in the backyard, a massive tree stretched its gnarled branches toward the sky, its leaves rustling like whispers in the wind.
As we stepped inside, the scent of aged wood and a hint of dust greeted us. The interior was simple but held a certain charm. There were two rooms, a cosy kitchen with wooden cabinets darkened by years of use, and a modest bathroom with an old-fashioned clawfoot tub. The stairwell to the attic stood at the far end of the hallway, its steps creaking underfoot.
One of the bedrooms was unmistakably meant for adults. A sturdy wooden bed stood against the wall, its thick mattress covered in a quilt with faded floral patterns. A cushioned chair sat beside it, inviting and well-worn, while a dressing table with a small, round mirror reflected the soft light filtering through the window.
The second bedroom held a different energy—a space meant for children. A wooden bunk bed stood proudly in the centre, its posts smooth from years of use. In two corners of the room, study tables rested against the walls, their surfaces bare and waiting to be filled with books, papers, and late-night scribblings. The walls bore faint marks of past occupants, and the wooden floor carried the faint scent of pine, as if whispering of new beginnings.
The house was old, but it had a soul—a quiet, waiting presence that seemed ready to embrace its new inhabitants.
Mom told us that Justin and I would share the room with the bunk bed, so we needed to start cleaning it. She mentioned that she would take care of the other room, which would serve as both her office and bedroom, and then she would move on to the attic.
Excited about our new room, Justin and I wasted no time. The wooden floor was worn but sturdy, carrying the faint scent of pine and dust. I scrubbed at the stubborn stains clinging to the walls while Justin fetched water for me from the old bucket in the washroom. The cool water splashed over my hands as I wrung out the rag, the scent of soap and damp wood filling the air. Every now and then, we'd exchange playful glances, finding ways to make the chore less tedious.
Meanwhile, Mom was busy tackling her own space, her movements swift and precise. Though the house was old, it had character—a history etched into its creaky floorboards and aged wooden furniture. As we worked, the soft afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting a golden hue over the room, making the hard labour feel almost rewarding.
After two hours of scrubbing, wiping, and sweeping, we finally finished. The air in our room felt lighter, fresher, and the space seemed more inviting than before. We wiped the sweat from our brows and admired our work before heading to help Mom with the attic.
The attic was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and the scent of aged wood. As we moved old boxes aside, Mom suddenly let out a small gasp. Lying on the floor, half-hidden beneath a tattered cloth, was a goat skull, tied with a dried leaf from a sourbush tree. A shiver ran down my spine at the eerie sight. Justin and I exchanged nervous glances, the image of the skull burning into our minds.
Mom, though startled, quickly regained her composure. Without a word, she picked it up and carried it outside, tossing it into the dustbin with a decisive motion. We resumed cleaning, but the unsettling feeling lingered. The attic, once just a dusty, forgotten space, now held an air of mystery that neither of us could shake.
That night, as I lay on my bed, staring up at the wooden slats of the top bunk, my mind wandered back to the skull. My thoughts spiralled, drawing connections to the horror movies I'd watched, where objects like that were used for witchcraft. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push the images away, but a gnawing unease remained.
Mom’s call for dinner was a welcome distraction. Justin and I hurried to the dining table, our stomachs rumbling after the exhausting day. To our delight, Mom had prepared butter chicken and naan. The rich aroma of spices filled the air, and we dug in eagerly, savouring the warmth of the food. The flavours danced on my tongue, a comforting contrast to the eerie thoughts that had plagued me earlier.
By the time we finished, exhaustion had settled deep into our bones. As soon as we climbed into bed, sleep overtook us. Despite the lingering unease from the attic discovery, the rhythmic creaks of the house and the steady breathing of my brother beside me lulled me into slumber. Tomorrow was a new day, and for now, at least, we were safe.
The next morning, the gentle hum of the alarm clock stirred me from my dreams. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting golden streaks across the room. Mom's voice, warm yet firm, echoed from the hallway, urging Justin and me to get ready for school. Stretching away the remnants of sleep, I rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. The cool splash of water against my face sent a jolt of freshness through me, chasing away any lingering drowsiness. The scent of lavender soap clung to my skin as I scrubbed, the steam from my shower curling into the air like a morning mist.
I slipped into my neatly pressed school dress, the fabric cool against my skin, and made my way to the dining table. Justin was already there, his small fingers drumming excitedly against the wooden surface. In front of us, golden pancakes were stacked in a neat pile, the rich aroma of honey filling the air as Mom drizzled it over our plates. The first bite melted in my mouth—soft, buttery, and warm, a perfect blend of sweetness and comfort. We ate in contented silence, the rhythmic clinking of forks against plates the only sound accompanying our meal.
Once breakfast was over, we gathered our bags and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly dampened earth from the previous night’s rain. The ride to Westfield Academy was quiet, save for the soft rustling of Mom’s notes as she prepared for her first lecture. She was starting her new job today as an art teacher, a role she had worked tirelessly for. Justin and I, on the other hand, were preparing for a test—one that would determine which class we would be placed in.
As we pulled up to the grand gates of Westfield Academy, the sight of the school momentarily took my breath away. The building stood tall and imposing, its walls adorned with murals of historical figures and scientific discoveries. Sunlight bounced off the large windows, making the place seem almost magical. Mom gave us each a reassuring smile before heading toward the fifth-grade classroom, her presence exuding quiet determination.
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Justin and I exchanged nervous glances as we made our way to Mr. Hayes’ office. The corridors buzzed with activity—students chatting in hushed tones, teachers flipping through thick textbooks, and the distant echo of a school bell ringing through the halls. When we reached the office, Mr. Hayes greeted us with a kind yet assessing gaze. His sharp eyes lingered on us for a moment before he handed us our test papers.
As I sat down, the weight of the exam settled over me. The questions sprawled across the paper, each one demanding precise answers. My hands trembled slightly as I gripped my pen, my heartbeat quickening. But as I read through the questions, my mind gradually steadied, memories of past lessons surfacing like whispers from the depths of my thoughts. Bit by bit, confidence seeped in, pushing away my anxiety. When I finally placed my pen down, a sense of relief washed over me.
Mr. Hayes took thirty minutes to review our tests. Those minutes felt like an eternity, the air thick with anticipation. When he finally looked up, his expression remained unreadable. “Emily, you will be placed in standard tenth,” he announced, his voice even. “And Justin, you will be placed in standard sixth.”
Relief and pride swelled in my chest. Justin and I exchanged small smiles before heading to our respective classrooms.
Stepping into my new class, I felt every pair of eyes turn toward me. The teacher, a tall woman with an air of quiet authority, gestured for me to introduce myself. Taking a deep breath, I spoke confidently, my voice steady despite the rapid beating of my heart. “My name is Emily William,” I said, my gaze sweeping across the unfamiliar faces. A girl with dark curls and warm brown eyes smiled at me from the second row. “You can sit next to Reachal,” the teacher instructed.
As the day unfolded, different teachers came and went, their lessons blending together in a whirlwind of knowledge. Numbers danced across the blackboard in math, chemical equations took shape in science, and stories wove themselves into vivid imagery in literature. By the time the final bell rang, signalling the end of the history class, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.
The school grounds erupted into a flurry of movement—students chattering excitedly, rushing toward the entrance gate. Justin and I stood beneath the grand archway, waiting for Mom. The golden hues of the setting sun bathed the school in a warm glow, the air filled with the mixed scents of books and freshly cut grass. When Mom finally arrived, her face held a soft smile, the exhaustion of the day evident but overshadowed by her quiet happiness.
Instead of waiting for a bus, we decided to hail a taxi. The ride back home was smooth, the rhythmic hum of the engine lulling Justin into a light doze. As I gazed out of the window, the streets of Westfield stretched before us, bathed in the twilight’s embrace.
It had been a long day, filled with nervous anticipation and new beginnings. But as I leaned back against the seat, feeling the gentle sway of the moving vehicle, I knew one thing for certain—we were finally where we were meant to be.
When we arrived home, the crisp, fresh air of Greenfield greeted us, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain. The town, nestled atop rolling hills, was bathed in a golden afternoon glow, the sun casting long shadows over the modest houses that dotted the landscape. Greenfield was nothing like the bustling city we had left behind—it was quieter, untouched by the constant hum of traffic and neon lights.
As soon as the taxi pulled up to our house, Greenfield, Justin, and I rushed toward the door, excitement bubbling within us like a shaken soda. Mom followed at a slower pace, her gaze sweeping over our new home—a single-story structure with a dark grey wooden exterior, worn by time but sturdy in its quiet resilience. The wind whispered through the leaves of the massive tree in the backyard, as if welcoming us to our new life.
Once Mom reached the door, she unlocked it with a soft click, and we hurried inside. The house smelled of aged wood and a faint trace of dust, but it held a certain charm, an unspoken promise of new beginnings. We wasted no time washing our hands, the cool water refreshing against our skin, washing away the remnants of our long journey. After freshening up, we changed out of our school uniforms, replacing them with comfortable clothes that made us feel at home.
We then settled at the dining table, where a pizza box from an authentic Italian restaurant awaited us, its aroma filling the small kitchen with the scent of warm cheese and herbs. The pizza had arrived while we were still in the taxi, its perfect timing making it feel like a small blessing. Mom, with her usual warmth, encouraged us to enjoy our meal first, assuring us that we could explore our new neighbourhood afterwards.
We devoured our lunch eagerly, savouring every bite, then set off on an adventure through Greenfield. The town, we soon discovered, was incredibly small—only seven families lived here, making it feel more like an extended household than a community. In the heart of the town stood a modest church, its white walls slightly weathered, yet standing tall like a silent guardian over the land.
As we wandered, we met a kind family of farmers who welcomed us with open arms. John Smith, a tall man with rough hands but a gentle smile, introduced himself as the head of the household. His wife, Mrs. Smith, exuded warmth, her kind eyes crinkling as she spoke. Their daughter, Anna, a girl of nineteen, was a student at Westfield Academy—just like me. Their farm, lush and abundant, stretched behind the church, where rows of vegetables thrived under the watchful gaze of the sun. Nearby, a group of cows grazed peacefully, their soft moos blending into the tranquil sounds of the countryside.
John Smith offered to introduce us to the rest of the town, and Mom, eager to get to know our new neighbors, agreed. As we strolled through the winding paths of Greenfield, we came across an Indian family of four. Anand, the father, had a warm, booming voice, while his wife, Priya, greeted us with a radiant smile. Their two children, Anish and Nyra, clung to their mother’s side, their shy curiosity evident in their bright eyes. The family owned a restaurant in Westfield called Dawat Indian Restaurant, a place that, from the way they spoke about it, carried the flavors of home for them.
we were introduced to Noah, a Ph.D. student in psychology who lived in Greenhill and worked as a delivery driver for Dawat. His house was a small yet cozy cottage nestled among towering oak trees, its stone pathway lined with wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze. The exterior was painted a soft, earthy brown, blending harmoniously with the surrounding greenery. A vine of morning glories curled around the wooden porch railing, their delicate blue petals catching the golden light of the setting sun.
Moving on, we met a newly married couple who had recently moved from New York, seeking a quieter life after securing jobs in Westfield’s IT industry. Their laughter was soft, their hands always finding each other’s, as if they were still adjusting to the novelty of marriage.
Next, we met an elderly woman who lived with her beloved husband. Their house, covered in creeping ivy, exuded an old-world charm, the kind that spoke of countless years of love and shared memories.
As our journey continued, John Smith told us about Father Gabriel, the town’s priest who resided within the church. His presence, though unseen that day, was said to be the pillar of faith and kindness in Greenfield.
Lastly, we approached the final house in town, its blackish exterior standing in stark contrast to the rest. It belonged to Julia, a 45-year-old single mother, much like Mom. Her daughter, Evelyn, was twenty—only a year older than Anna. There was a quiet strength in Julia’s demeanour, a resilience that mirrored the one I had seen in my mother time and time again.
By the time we had met everyone, the sky had begun to change, soft shades of pink and orange stretching across the horizon. The air turned cooler, carrying the distant scent of rain, and Mom reminded us that she had schoolwork to complete. With grateful smiles and warm farewells, we bid our neighbours goodbye and made our way home.
As we stepped inside, a sense of belonging settled over me. This town, with its quiet streets and kind people, was nothing like the world we had left behind. But maybe, just maybe, that was a good thing.
For the first time in a long while, I felt like we were exactly where we were meant to be.