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The Forgotten Note

Ella sat at her work area, filtering through old papers that had amassed throughout the long term. She’d been importance to clear out the cabinet for quite a long time, however life generally disrupted everything. Today, however, something made her interruption. Underneath the heap of receipts and neglected plans for the day, a collapsed piece of yellowed paper got her attention. It was crinkled at the edges, similar to it had been staying there for quite a while, and the penmanship was obviously hers — despite the fact that she didn’t recollect composing it.

She unfurled it cautiously.

_”To Ella,
You will find this note when you are prepared. Try not to address it. Trust it.
Adhere to the directions cautiously.

Go to the upper room.
Open the old bag.
Consume what you view as inside.
In any case, don’t check it out.
On the off chance that you do, you’ll always be unable to neglect.
—Ella, from the past”_
Ella’s heart skirted a thump. She had no memory of composing the note, no memory of having a storage room or an old bag. In any case, the peculiar load in her chest told her that there was a significant thing about it. Something she was unable to overlook.

The upper room.

Ella stood up, the note actually gripped in her grasp. The air felt thick as she pushed toward the corridor. The house appeared to be changed, calmer in some way. She wasn’t up there in that frame of mind, since she was a youngster. It was anything but a spot she got a kick out of the chance to contemplate. The upper room had consistently felt… wrong. In any case, the note consumed to her. “Try not to address it. Trust it.”

Her hands shuddered as she opened the secret entryway and ascended the creaky stepping stool into the faint, stale smelling space. The air was flat, thick with the fragrance of residue and old wood. Toward the edge of the room was an endured bag, its calfskin broken and stained with time.

She felt a virus chill slither down her spine.

Her eyes followed the note’s guidelines. “Open the bag. Consume what you view as inside.”

Her psyche shouted at her to turn around. This felt wrong. She would have rather not opened it. However, the more she wavered, the more the impulse developed, similar to a hand squeezing against her chest, encouraging her forward.

The lock on the bag was firm, hesitant to give way. She mishandled with it briefly, then yanked it open.

Inside, a heap of photos, weak with age, gazed up at her. She wavered, recollecting the note’s admonition — Don’t check it out. Assuming you do, you’ll always be unable to neglect.

Be that as it may, her hand came to in any case, attracted to the photos with a practically attractive power. She hauled them out individually, incapable to fight the temptation to look.

The first was an image of a kid. A more youthful form of herself. However, something was off about the manner in which she was grinning. It was excessively wide, excessively constrained.

The subsequent picture — her as a young person, remaining with a man. His face was hazy, similar to he’d been intentionally deleted. Be that as it may, his eyes — those eyes — were shockingly natural.

The third photo was the most ridiculously upsetting: an image of her, a lot more seasoned now, yet her demeanor was empty. Behind the scenes, a shadowed figure lingered, its face stowed away, however the unquestionable state of the man from the subsequent photo lingered behind her, like watching her peacefully.

The last picture, however, was absolutely awful. It was an image of her in bed — resting. However, something was off-base. She was in good company. The shadowy figure from the other photographs remained next to her, a hand put on her shoulder.

Ella’s breath hitched. She could feel the recollections flooding back, recollections she had covered profound inside herself — the man, the maltreatment, the control. She had constrained herself to neglect, had persuaded herself it had never worked out. Be that as it may, it had. Every last bit of it.

The note had been correct. She was unable to neglect. Not at the present time. Not ever.

The photos were consuming her hands, as though the intensity of her own past was ascending to the surface, burning her skin. She dropped them into the bag and snatched the matchbook from the cabinet of a close by bureau. Her fingers shook as she struck the match, watching the blazes dance.

However, the photos wouldn’t consume. They remained in one piece, as though deriding her, declining to be eradicated.

Unexpectedly, the storage room entryway closed. The room appeared to surround her, stifling her with recollections she was unable to get away.

A murmur ended the quietness.

“You can never get away from what you’ve done, Ella.”

The voice was delicate, yet it was the voice of the man in the photos.

Ella heaved, her psyche spiraling, as everything unwound. She had followed the note. She had confided in it. However, presently, it appeared to be that the note had consistently known reality she had denied.

Reality she was unable to beat.