Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the attic's grimy window, swirling like tiny, lost stars. The air hung thick and still, smelling of forgotten things – old paper, cedar chests, and a faint, sweet hint of lavender from somewhere long ago. Twelve-year-old Elara pushed aside a stack of dusty photo albums, her sneakers crunching softly on the loose floorboards. Each creak echoed in the quiet, making the vast, cluttered space feel even emptier. She was supposed to be helping Grandma sort through boxes, a task that felt as quiet and unnoticed as Elara herself often did. Since moving to Willow Creek to live with her, finding a place here, a real place, felt as impossible as touching the clouds outside the grimy attic window. Mostly, Elara just felt like a whisper in a loud room, always on the outside, watching.