THE MEMORIES WE BURIED

Mira found the photograph inside a book she had never opened.

It was an old paperback from the top shelf of her father's study. She only pulled it down because the electricity had gone out, and she was looking for a flashlight.

The photograph fell onto the floor.

Mira almost ignored it.

Then she saw the house.

Her house.

She picked it up.

The photograph showed the front of their home, taken from across the street. It looked ordinary except for one thing.

Mira was standing in the upstairs window.

She stared at herself.

She was wearing the yellow sweater she had lost three years ago.

Behind her, someone was standing in the room.

The face had been scratched away.

“Mira?”

She quickly turned.

Her brother, Aarav, stood in the doorway holding a candle.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes moved to the photograph.

For a second, his expression changed.

Not surprise.

Fear.

“Where did you get that?”

“Inside the book.”

“Put it back.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Mira looked at the photograph again.

“You've seen this before.”

Aarav didn't answer.

She stepped closer.

“You have.”

“I said put it back.”

“Who took it?”

He blew out a breath and rubbed his forehead.

“I don't know.”

“You're lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

That almost made him smile.

Almost.

Then he looked at the photograph again.

“Dad told me never to talk about that night.”

Mira's stomach tightened.

“What night?”

Aarav went completely still.

The candle flame shook between them.

“You don't remember?”

“Remember what?”

He looked at her for several seconds.

Then he said something so quietly that she almost missed it.

“You weren't supposed to be in that window.”

Mira looked back at the photograph.

She noticed something she hadn't seen before.

Written on the back, in handwriting she recognized as her father's, were six words:

Mira, if you find this, don't trust Aarav.