The Woman in the Window
The rain returned that night, soft at first, then relentless—like it was trying to wash the past off the Moretti estate brick by brick.
Elena stood in her old bedroom, holding the photo of their mother and Silva beneath the dim glow of her bedside lamp. She had gone through every journal, letter, and photograph in the vault, but there was no mention of where Silva had gone, or why she had vanished completely from their family's memory. Just fragments. Fears. And that strange, persistent symbol: the phoenix.
There was one page, crumpled and water-damaged, that kept echoing in her mind.
"She said I shouldn't have painted it. That capturing both girls would invite her back."
Invite who back?
And why now?
She was startled from her thoughts by a soft knock at the door.
It creaked open, and Valentina stepped inside wearing an oversized robe, her hair slightly damp. There were dark circles under her eyes—like sleep had escaped her too.
"Elena," she said softly. "Can we talk?"
Elena set the photo down. "Of course."
Valentina hesitated by the door, then entered and sat on the edge of the bed, her movements slower than usual—measured, almost cautious.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that portrait. I know it's just paint and canvas, but…" She shook her head. "It felt alive."
Elena didn't respond right away. She knew the feeling. It wasn't just art. It was a memory. A warning. Or worse—something still unfolding.
Valentina looked up. "Did you notice her eyes?"
Elena tilted her head. "Whose?"
"Silva's. In the photo. Her eyes are just like ours, but... they don't feel like ours. They feel empty."
Elena's voice was quiet. "Do you think she's still alive?"
Valentina didn't answer right