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The house was too quiet. It used to be filled with laughter—little feet running across hardwood floors, dolls having loud tea parties in the living room, and Eliza’s voice singing songs from memory with made-up words in between. Now, there was only silence. Thick. Heavy. Suffocating. Mara stood at the doorway to her daughter’s room, hand on the doorknob but unable to turn it. She hadn’t gone inside since the funeral. The pink paint on the door was chipped, a faint mark where a sticker had once clung stubbornly. Eliza had been proud of that sticker. A glittery star that said Super Reader!. With a deep breath, Mara pushed the door open. Dust floated in the air like suspended snowflakes, caught in the rays of the early afternoon sun. The bed was still unmade—Eliza never got the hang of corners—and her favorite stuffed bunny, Mr. Waffles, sat on the pillow where she’d last left him. Mara stepped inside slowly, as if afraid to disturb something sacred. She trailed her fingers across the bookshelf. The titles blurred through the tears forming in her eyes—Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, The Velveteen Rabbit. The walls still smelled like her. A mix of apple shampoo, crayon wax, and something sweet she could never quite place. Her daughter had died three months ago, but Mara’s heart still refused to accept it. It beat out of habit, not belief. She sat on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked. Something cracked inside her. They’d found Eliza in the woods, less than a mile from the backyard. She’d gone missing one cloudy evening in April. A neighbor said she’d seen her near the edge of the trees just after dinner. Mara had only turned away for a moment—to answer the phone. By the time she hung up, Eliza was gone. The search had lasted hours, then days. But Mara knew—somewhere deep down—that her little girl would not be coming back. Not alive. Her body had been discovered by a jogger, curled beneath a tree with her tiny hands clenched into fists. No one had answers. No one had seen anything. There was no sign of a struggle. No tracks. Nothing. Just... silence. Mara picked up Mr. Waffles and cradled him. Her hand brushed something sharp in the bedding. A small, blue bead. The kind Eliza used to make necklaces with. She remembered how Eliza had begged her to wear one to work—a plastic rainbow strung on fraying yarn. She’d worn it anyway. Now Mara barely left the house. The police had done their part, she supposed. Interviews. Door-to-doors. A few whispers of potential suspects that never amounted to anything. Case cold. "Random incident," they said. "No signs of abuse, no known enemies." No closure. Outside, a swing on the backyard set creaked in the breeze. It hadn't done that before. Not unless someone was on it. Mara stood quickly, walking to the window. The swing moved gently, as if nudged by a small hand. She rubbed her eyes and stepped back. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was something else.

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Novelo Square

Empty Rooms

First Whisper

The Attic

Messages

The Journal

The Visitor

The Cold Truth

Ashes and Evidence

The Trial

Epilogue – At Peace

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Whispers of Eliza

Whispers of Eliza

ProudMommy0321

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About Author

Ceria Mcgrone

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