We reached the second-floor landing, where the shadows seemed longer and darker.

My bedroom was at the end of the long hallway.

I pushed the door open, the hinges creaking slightly.

The room looked exactly as I had left it, covered in a thin layer of grey dust.

On top of my old white vanity table sat the mahogany music box.

I walked over and picked it up, my fingers tracing the carved wood.

It was heavier than a normal music box of its size.

“Is that it?” Roman asked, standing near the doorway, his eyes scanning the dark hallway.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Beside the vanity, a cardboard box filled with old papers sat on the floor.

I looked down and saw my mother’s name on a thick manila folder inside.

Her old medical charts from the hospital.

I felt a sudden, strange urge to take them with me.

“Lena, we need to move,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a low growl.

“Just a second,” I said, reaching down and grabbing the thick folder.

I tucked the medical charts under my arm, holding the music box tightly against my chest.