We followed my grandmother upstairs.
The attic seemed different at night.
The air was colder.
Every old piece of furniture looked like a shadow.
The wooden trunk stood beneath the window.
My grandmother pointed toward it.
"Open it."
I lifted the lid.
Inside were blankets, old clothes, letters and dozens of photographs.
We searched through them until my mother suddenly stopped.
"Here."
She pulled out a small wooden box.
It was locked.
My grandmother handed her a tiny key.
"Where did you get that?"
"I've had it for forty years."
My mother opened the box.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Clara and Daniel standing beside the apple tree.
But this time, Clara wasn't holding Daniel's hand.
She was holding another child's hand.
A little girl.
My mother.
I looked at her.
She was shaking.
"I remember now."
"What?"
"The night Clara came back."
She covered her mouth.
"She wasn't asking my father to help her."
"Then what was she asking?"
My mother looked at me.
"She was asking me to remember her."
A child's laughter came from behind us.
We turned.
Clara stood at the attic door.
Not in a photograph.
Not in a reflection.
She was standing there.
In the pale dress.
The white ribbon was tied around her dark hair.
Beside her stood Daniel.
They were holding hands.
My mother began to cry.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Clara stepped forward.
She reached out her hand.
My mother took it.
The moment their fingers touched, every photograph in the attic fell from the shelves.
One by one.
Hundreds of them.
Photographs of birthdays.
Weddings.
Christmases.
Family gatherings.
And in every photograph, Clara was there.
Sometimes beside my mother.
Sometimes behind my grandmother.
Sometimes standing beneath the apple tree.
But now she was disappearing.
Not completely.
Just slowly fading into the background.
As though she had finally been released.
Then my phone buzzed.
A new photograph had appeared.
It showed my mother and me standing beneath the apple tree.
The photograph had been taken from behind us.
Between our hands stood Clara.
Her fingers were wrapped around mine.
And my mother's.
Written across the bottom were five words:
THREE OF US WILL REMEMBER.
My mother read them.
Then she began to scream.
I turned toward the attic window.
Clara was no longer standing at the door.
She was outside.
Under the apple tree.
She raised one finger and pointed toward the ground.
My grandmother whispered:
"Look."
There were footprints in the dirt.
Small footprints.
Two sets.
One belonged to Clara.
The other belonged to Daniel.
They led from the tree toward the house.
And stopped directly beneath the attic window.