The Hollow never vanished, but it softened.
Where once the trees stood clawed and crooked, wildflowers now bloomed in reckless color—poppies and foxgloves, violets and yarrow. The air still held its old hush, the kind that made birdsong sound like secrets, but the fear was gone. In its place: reverence.
Children from the village visited in the spring, trailing behind their parents with wide eyes and woven crowns. Some left offerings—stones painted with symbols they didn't understand, or little feathers, or letters sealed with wax. They placed them at the foot of the gate and whispered wishes to the garden.
The house never answered aloud.
But sometimes, petals would fall in response. Or the wind would shift, just enough to make it feel like the Hollow was listening.
---
Lyra stayed.
She kept the rooms open, the lanterns lit, and the memories written down.
Her journal grew thick with names: of visitors, of dreamers, of those who came seeking answers or peace or simply a story. Not all stayed. But those who did became caretakers too, even if only for a season.
Elias painted. His portraits lined the old corridors—faces of the forgotten, imagined from memories and ghost-tales. His studio smelled like oils and lavender, and he always kept a window cracked for the breeze.
They never spoke again of the rituals.
There was no need.
---
Sometimes, Lyra stood by the fountain and looked toward the hills, half-expecting to see a figure waiting there. Her mother. Or her younger self. Or one of the others who had vanished into the fog long ago.
But no one came.
And that was okay.
The Hollow was no longer a place for hauntings. It was a place of echoes—and echoes, she had learned, are not ghosts. They are reminders. Soft ones.
---
On the final page of her ledger, Lyra wrote:
> The Hollow endures.
Not as a curse, but as a memory.
Not in darkness, but in quiet.
The house remains.
But it is not alone.
She closed the book and left it on the table beside the mirror that no longer reflected anything but truth.
Then she stepped outside.
The wind moved through the trees.
And the Hollow, for the first time in centuries, breathed without sorrow.