Page 22 - Languages Week Special Edition

At first, they were subtle—things that could be dismissed as coincidences. A whisper
of Lily’s perfume lingered in the air. A notebook left open to a page filled with her
familiar handwriting. A hushed voice calling my name in the wind. But as the occur-
rences grew more frequent, they became impossible to ignore. It was as if Lily was

reaching out, leaving behind a trail for me to follow. And I was determined to uncov-
er the truth—no matter where it led.
Each night, I poured my thoughts into my journal, my pen moving feverishly across
the pages. It was the only way I knew how to keep Lily close, to hold onto the sliver
of hope that one day she would return.

One evening, unable to shake the weight of her absence, I found myself standing in

her room. Everything had been left untouched, a shrine frozen in time. The dust had
settled over beloved books, clothes still lay folded in the dresser, and the faint scent
of vanilla and lavender—Lily’s favourite—lingered in the air. As I traced my fin-
gers along the wooden desk, memories of our late-night talks and whispered dreams
washed over me.

And then I saw it.
A small wooden box, tucked beneath the bed, hidden from sight. It was old, the edges

worn, as if it had been handled many times before. Something about it sent a shiver
down my spine.

Heart pounding, I pulled it out and opened the lid.
Inside were items that did not belong to Lily. A torn piece of paper with frantic,
smudged writing. A small, rusted key. A Polaroid of an unfamiliar alleyway, a shad-
owy figure standing in its depths. And at the very bottom, a delicate silver neck-

lace—its chain tangled and broken.

My breath hitched. The necklace was mine.
I had lost it months ago.
My hands trembled as I unfolded the torn paper. The ink was hurried, frantic:
"It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. If something goes wrong, find the key. Don’t
trust—"

The rest of the note was missing.

A sinking feeling settled in my gut. Something had gone terribly wrong. But with
what? And who couldn’t Lily trust?
I turned my attention to the Polaroid. The image was hazy, washed out with time,
but the graffiti-covered alley was unmistakable. A single streetlamp flickered, barely

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