We are here.

We had no idea what we were doing. No plan. Just a string of clues, a few odd names scribbled on napkins, and a hunger to uncover the truth. It was wild. It was exciting. And it was exhausting.

Our journey began the morning after Chloe had found the old article. The photo of the mural had a blurry comment attached, almost as if the poster was scared to say too much. It read: "Ask someone from The Swaying Grace. If you can find them."

"The Swaying Grace?" Peter repeated, peering over Chloe's phone.

"It was a dance studio," Chloe explained. "Apparently shut down in the 80s. Maybe even earlier."

We Googled everything we could. An ancient blog post mentioned a family who used to own the building. They didn't live there anymore, but their relatives were still around. That was our lead.

THE FIRST HOUSE

We hopped into a cab by noon. Chloe had convinced our parents the trip was an educational city tour with dance museums and historic art spots. Mine had been skeptical, of course. But after lots of, "It's for a project!" and "Chloe will be with us!" they gave in.

Peter's mom had been more casual, apparently. I heard him on the call:

"Yeah, mom, we'll be in a hotel. Chloe and Emma are coming too… Yes, I'll call every night. No, I won't forget sunscreen. Yes, I'll text Aunt Eliza. Okay, love you."

This was how it all started, parents, hugging night with Peter, teasing phase with Chloe, and now finding clues going house to house.

Our first stop was a small town an hour outside the city. We met an old woman named Beatrice, who ran a thrift shop with old dance shoes hanging from the ceiling like ornaments. She wasn't alive in the 70s, but her grandmother was once part of the dance troupe.

"My Nanna used to tell us stories," she said as she served us lemon tea. "Julie was the star of the Swaying Grace. She moved like she carried sorrow in her soul. The audience felt it. That's what made her unforgettable."

I leaned in. "Do you know what happened to her?"

"No one really knows. My grandmother said she disappeared one evening, like the air swallowed her. There was talk about a child. A boy. Left behind. But no one knows what happened to him either."

Peter stiffened beside me. He didn't speak the entire ride back to the hotel.

THE SECOND DAY OF MADNESS

We spent the next day visiting a family that once owned The Swaying Grace studio. The current head of the house, a woman in her 50s named Helena, welcomed us curiously.

"Julie?" she said. "Yes, I remember hearing about her from my father. He was obsessed with her dancing. Said she had pain written into every step."

"Did your father ever meet her?" Chloe asked.

"He saw her perform, yes. He even sketched her once." Helena pulled out an old box and gave us a folded drawing. It was of a woman mid-spin, hair flying, dress like a flame.

Peter's eyes widened. "I've seen this before."

"Where?" I asked.

He hesitated. "I… don't know."

Another piece to the puzzle.

We were walking through an alley that evening, searching for the next house on our list when Peter and I got into a stupid fight. He wanted to go back to the hotel and rest. I didn't.

"You always want to stop when things get real," I said.

He stopped walking. "Excuse me..??!"

"You're hiding something. Every time we get close to the truth, you freeze."

"That's rich coming from you," he snapped. "You want the truth? You don't even know what you feel about me."

I stared at him, mouth open. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Everything," he muttered, brushing past me.

Chloe tried to break the tension with jokes, but we barely spoke the rest of the night.

The next day, we found ourselves in the home of an old musician. He hadn't known Julie personally, but his mother was in the orchestra for many of her performances. She left behind journals.

We flipped through them, and there it was: a sketch of a house with a red gate and garden. An address scribbled faintly beside it.

We froze.

"That's… that's in our city," Chloe said slowly.

We took a cab without even thinking. It was getting dark when we reached the house. I stepped out first. Peter stayed seated, staring.

"I've been here before," I whispered.

Peter's door creaked open. His steps slowed as we reached the gate.

"This… this is my house," he said.

Chloe turned pale. "What?"

"This is where I grew up," Peter said, his voice shaky. "But I never knew… I never thought…"

I looked at the garden. The red gate. The chimes. Everything matched the sketch.

"All the clues," I murmured. "They led us here."

Peter didn't move. Didn't breathe. It was as if the truth had slammed into him and knocked all the air out.

What had Julie left behind in this house?

And why did Peter not know until now?

Something was hiding here.

And we were about to find it.

The sun was setting behind the crooked trees as we walked back to Peter's house. My feet were tired, my heart heavier than it had been in weeks. Clues, maps, people, stories — everything we gathered from the past two days led us here. Peter's house.

Peter's house.

Chloe was quiet. Too quiet. And Peter… he looked like someone had just punched him in the gut. His eyes hadn't moved from the rusted iron gate, the paint peeling like forgotten memories.

"This… this is my house," he whispered, barely believing it himself.

I swallowed. "Peter, are you sure?"

He nodded slowly, his voice hoarse. "I've lived here my whole life. There's no way…"

Chloe touched my arm. "Weird coincidence?"

I didn't answer. Because it didn't feel like one.

We entered.

Julie, Peter's mom, stood by the living room archway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her hair was up, eyes alert but warm. She was smiling.

"You're back," she said. "Finally."

The silence that followed could've broken glass. We were three statues frozen in the doorway, drenched in disbelief.

"You guys okay?" she asked, but something about her voice… it was strange. A little too sweet.

Peter was the first to speak. "Mom… do you know anything about a woman named Julie… who danced in the mural? At the old theater?"

Julie's smile twitched. Just slightly.

"Julie's a common name," she said quickly, brushing past us to the kitchen.

But I saw it. That flicker in her eyes. That crack in the perfect mask.

I needed to know.

I had to know.

We sat down, nervously exchanging glances while Julie prepared tea like everything was perfectly normal. The clinks of the spoon against porcelain were the only sounds in the room.

"Julie," I finally said, forcing calm into my voice, "did you ever… dance?"

She stopped. Back still turned. The spoon clattered onto the floor.

She didn't move to pick it up.

"I saw this coming," she whispered, voice suddenly hollow. "I knew this day would come."

Peter sat forward, his jaw tightening. "Mom, what are you talking about?"

She turned. Her face was… not the same. That soft motherly smile was gone.

There was something else. Something cold. Distant. Almost haunted.

"You shouldn't have looked," she said, more to herself than to us. "I told myself if you stayed away, it would stay buried. But you're his son. And she… she keeps coming back." Her eyes locked on me.

Me.

My blood turned cold.

"Who am I?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

She walked slowly toward us, steps too graceful, too practiced. Like a dancer. Like the woman in the mural.

"Don't do this," she said to me softly, her voice cracking. "Don't try to find Peter."

"W-what do you mean?" Chloe asked. "Emma's not trying to—"

But then she pulled out a knife.

A shiny kitchen knife.

Julie's eyes were glistening now, and I swear they weren't the eyes of the woman I met months ago when I first visited Peter's house. They were wild. Shaky. Lost.

"I didn't want this," she whispered. "But she keeps coming back, she always comes back—"

Before I could move, she lunged.

Time slowed.

I couldn't scream. Couldn't move.

But Chloe could.

"NO!" she yelled, slamming into Julie, knocking her sideways.

The knife slashed — through air, through panic — and pain tore through my arm. I dropped to the floor, holding it as warmth seeped through my shirt. Peter ran forward, grabbing Julie and pulling her back. She fought like a madwoman, sobbing and yelling nonsense — something about "time" and "you were supposed to be gone."

"CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Peter shouted.

Chloe was crying. I was shaking. Julie collapsed into Peter's arms, whispering something into his ear before passing out. I didn't catch it. But his face turned white as snow.

The ambulance came within ten minutes.

I was rushed to the hospital, barely conscious, but aware of Peter never leaving my side — holding my hand the entire way. Chloe kept pacing, still crying.

"I thought you were gonna die, Emma," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I was so scared."

Peter didn't say a word. He just stared at my wound like it had personally shattered his world.

That night in the hospital, everything changed. Julie was taken away. Peter had to stay back and give statements. Chloe stayed with me. It was dark, quiet, but my thoughts were screaming.

What did Julie mean by "she keeps coming back"?

Why did she try to kill me?

What did she whisper to Peter?

And what… exactly… was she hiding?

The real storm had just begun.