September 27, Friday

THE STEADY patter of rain against the windows provided a soothing backdrop as I tapped away at my laptop. Words were finally flowing, but after a few solid hours, I needed a break. My mind wandered to the hidden workshop at the heart of the Whisper House.

I made my way through the shadowy corridors, feeling like I was stepping back in time. The door to Rose's workshop creaked open, revealing the cozy space filled with half-finished projects and the lingering scent of wood polish.

I flicked on the old radio, and soft jazz filled the room. Picking up a piece of sandpaper, I resumed work on the rocking chair Rose had left behind. As I smoothed away the rough edges, my thoughts drifted to the chair's previous owner.

Tilda's words echoed in my mind. Rose would never have taken her own life. Looking around the workshop, I could see why she'd think that. Several projects were in various stages of completion—a partially stripped dresser, a table with new legs waiting to be attached. It didn't seem like the workspace of someone planning to check out.

But then again, depression doesn't always announce itself with neon signs. Something could have happened to send Rose into a spiral. My mind conjured an image of Sawyer, his eyes filled with regret as he turned Rose away one final time.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the morbid thoughts, but curiosity gnawed at me. Setting aside the sandpaper, I made a decision. It was time to do some real investigating.

Rose's bedroom was at the far end of the hall, exactly as she'd left it. I'd explored the room once before, but this time, now that I knew more about her life, I felt like an intruder. "Sorry, Rose," I whispered as I stepped inside.

The room was a mix of old and new – antique furniture alongside modern gadgets. Books were everywhere, stacked on nightstands and spilling out of bookcases. I ran my fingers along the spines, noting an eclectic mix of romance novels, books on local history, and guides to witchcraft and herbalism.

On the dresser, a collection of crystals caught my eye. I recognized a few from my visits to Franny's shop – amethyst for protection, rose quartz for love. A journal lay nearby, but I couldn't bring myself to read it. Even I had limits.

I was about to leave when something peeking out from under the bed caught my eye. Crouching down, I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a children's valentine, the kind handed out in elementary schools. Cute animals danced across the front, declaring "You're Paw-some!"

But it was the message scrawled on the back that made my breath catch:

Let's talk. Meet me in the graveyard at dusk.

The handwriting was hurried, almost frantic. A chill ran down my spine as I realized this could be the last message Rose ever received.

Who had asked to meet her? Sawyer? Tilda? Or someone else entirely?