That afternoon, my grandmother finally told me what she knew.
For years after Clara disappeared, strange things happened around the house.
Footsteps in empty rooms.
A child's laughter in the garden.
Doors opening by themselves.
And photographs.
Every few years, someone in the family would discover a new photograph containing Clara.
She appeared beside different family members.
Always at a distance.
Always watching.
But there was one detail that never changed.
In every photograph, someone was holding her hand.
"Who?" I asked.
My grandmother looked at me.
"The next person who would disappear."
I felt sick.
"Who disappeared after Clara?"
She didn't answer.
I knew the answer before she spoke.
"My mother?"
Grandmother nodded.
"Your mother was six when Clara first appeared in her photograph."
My heart began pounding.
"Is that why Mom hates photographs?"
"Yes."
I remembered something.
My mother had always refused to be photographed in our old house.
She never explained why.
I pulled out my phone.
"Grandma, when was the last photograph taken?"
She looked at me.
"Yesterday."
I froze.
"What?"
"You took one yesterday."
I remembered.
Before leaving the attic, I had taken a picture of the old family trunk.
My hands shook as I opened my phone.
The photograph appeared on the screen.
The trunk was in the center.
Behind it was the attic window.
And beside the window stood a little girl in a pale dress.
Clara.
Her hand was raised.
Pointing at something.
I zoomed in.
She wasn't pointing at me.
She was pointing at the attic door.
I looked up.
The door was open.
I was certain I had closed it.
My grandmother grabbed my arm.
"Don't go up there."
"Why?"
"Because Clara never appears unless she wants someone to find something."
I stared at her.
"Find what?"
She whispered:
"The truth."
That night, my mother finally came to my grandmother's house.
She looked terrified.
"I should have told you years ago," she said.
"What?"
She sat beside me.
"Clara didn't disappear."
I waited.
"She ran away because she was afraid of my father."
My grandfather.
I couldn't believe it.
"Why?"
"He used to hear voices."
My mother lowered her voice.
"He believed Clara wasn't really his daughter."
"What does that mean?"
"He believed something had followed her home from the woods."
I remembered the boy.
"The boy."
My mother nodded.
"Clara called him Daniel."
"Was he real?"
"Yes."
She took a deep breath.
"Daniel was my father's older brother. Clara's uncle."
I stared at her.
"That can't be."
"He died when he was twelve."
"How?"
"Near the river."
The same river where Clara's dress had been found.
My mother looked at the photograph.
"Your grandfather blamed Clara. He believed she had somehow brought Daniel back."
"But Clara was only ten."
"I know."
"What happened to her?"
My mother began to cry.
"She came back one night."
I waited.
"She stood outside the kitchen window."
My mother looked at me.
"She told my father that Daniel wanted his photograph back."
"What photograph?"
My mother pointed toward the attic.
"The family portrait."
I remembered the photograph in my hand.
"That one?"
She nodded.
"Your grandfather destroyed it."
I looked down at the faded picture.
"But this one survived."
My mother whispered:
"Because it wasn't the original."