Page 38

THEN:

The low murmur of conversation faded as Isla ascended the narrow wooden staircase leading to the attic. She brushed past cobwebs draped like gossamer veils from the rough-hewn beams, her heart aching for solace. The oppressive weight of another awful dinner's tension seemed to lift slightly with each step away from the dining room battlefield. She decided to go where she used to hide from her mother’s wrath as a child.

As she emerged into the attic, Isla inhaled deeply, the smell of aged wood and long-forgotten memories filling her senses. Moonlight spilled through a small window, casting ethereal patterns upon the floor. Dust motes danced in the air, disturbed by her presence in this seldom-visited space. Isla moved with purpose, navigating between boxes filled with relics of her family's past, seeking a haven where thoughts could roam free without the scrutiny of Victoria's gaze. The old photo albums. They had always been able to cheer her up.

In the far corner, beneath a draped sheet, Isla's fingers found the edge of an old chest she hadn’t noticed before. She pulled it aside and opened it, revealing a leather-bound album wedged between stacks of yellowing newspapers and discarded trinkets.

The cover creaked open, protesting years of neglect. Isla's eyes widened as they fell upon the first photograph—an image of a much younger Victoria, her hair styled in soft waves framing her striking features. But it wasn't her mother's youthful beauty that captured Isla's attention; it was the man standing beside Victoria, his arm looped casually around her waist, their smiles easy and genuine.

Who was this man whose laughter seemed to leap from the page? Isla's breath hitched as she turned the pages, each photo a window into a life her mother had never spoken of. There were candid shots of the pair lounging on sun-drenched beaches, sipping coffee at quaint sidewalk cafes, and dancing under strings of twinkling lights. In every image, Victoria's ice-blue eyes held warmth, a stark contrast to the coldness Isla knew all too well.

A whisper of paper signaled a hidden compartment at the back of the album. Isla eased out an envelope, its seal already broken. Inside, a smaller photo revealed the two of them together, their foreheads touching, lost in a moment of shared secrets. The intimacy of the gesture prompted a flurry of questions to rise within Isla, her mind racing to piece together the fragments of her mother's concealed history.

Clutching the album to her chest, Isla leaned back against the cool wall, the moon now a silent confidant to her discovery. What stories lie behind these frozen moments? What had led Victoria to tuck them away in the shadows of the attic, buried beneath layers of dust and time?

The photographs—each a silent testament to an unspoken past—whispered tales that Isla’s heart yearned to decipher. A younger Victoria, her mother’s features softened by time, smiled back at her, not with the strained expression Isla had come to expect but with genuine joy. Who was this man who stood beside her mother, their camaraderie captured as though it were the most natural thing in the world?

Questions swirled in Isla’s mind. It seemed impossible that the stony, unyielding matriarch downstairs was once this carefree soul, her arms wrapped around a stranger who exuded an air of significance.

Determination rose within Isla. The album before her was a puzzle, and she was certain its pieces were crucial to understanding the problems between her and Victoria. Her mother's guarded eyes and tight-lipped stories had left a void filled only with conjecture, but now there was a glimmer of something tangible—a lead to follow, a history to unearth.

"Who are you?" Isla whispered into the darkness, speaking to the shadows of her mother's former self.

Isla rose, her silhouette a faint outline against the attic window, the photo album cradled like a precious relic against her chest. Whatever secrets lay nestled within Victoria's history, Isla was determined to bring them into the light.