After waking up feeling disoriented, but more rested than she had felt in days, Claire considered her next move over a cup of weak coffee and some stale donuts she had left over from her trip. As one would expect the fridge and cupboards were cleared of foodstuff save for some non perishable condiments such as ketchup and soy sauce and a pitcher of water.

          In the light of day the kitchen no longer held the ghostly remnants of her childhood. In fact, it was quite obvious now that changes had been made. The wallpaper had been replaced, as had the old, stained Formica counter-tops. The appliances were still the same, archaic relics from the seventies and were so worn that Claire had been paranoid she'd start an electrical fire when she plugged in the ancient coffeemaker. She had ended up watching the entire process from start to finish, unplugging the machine as soon as it was done.

          Sitting alone in the kitchen, Claire had to remind herself that she had only a few days to get things taken care of here before she was needed back in New York for the show. Most of what she needed to do she could accomplish remotely, there were two things, however, the she had to do in person. The first was meeting with Mr. Jacobs regarding the contents of her grandfather's will, a task she had attempted to accomplish the day before.

          The second, well, the second was proving to be quite difficult.

She needed to pay her respects.

          It took Claire a great deal more courage and resolve than she expected to drive out to the cemetery that afternoon. Her grandparents were not the only ones who occupied the family plot. Her mother had been buried there as well and it would be the first time since the funeral that Claire had gone to visit the grave site. Claire felt ashamed of her pride and stubbornness, but could no longer allow such feelings to keep her from doing what she should have done years before.

          Once she had arrived, Claire sat in the car for over an hour before mustering up the nerve to open the door and climb out. The afternoon was brisk but the sun shone brightly overhead as Claire made her way towards the main gates.

          The cemetery itself was small but well maintained and it didn't take Claire long to find the plot on which her family had been buried. As she stood at its edge she found herself struck with an intense feeling of loss. This was it, this was all the family she'd had, and they were all gone.

          Taking a deep breath, Claire allowed her gaze to travel over the headstones, starting with the newest addition, her grandfather's, before moving on to the other two. It was her mother's gravestone that gave her pause and caused a frown to drag the corners of her mouth downward.

          In the cold chill of February plants all around struggled to survive until the first days of spring. Even the flowers left on her grandfather's grave had long since succumb to the frosty demands of winter's final stand.

          Growing around her mother's gravestone, however, were flowers whose petals were impossibly white, the very tips edged in a deep blue as though they had been dipped in paint. Stepping forward, Claire crouched down and reached out to touch one of the petals. She expected to feel the telltale indication of something synthetic like silk or plastic, but it didn't feel fake, quite the opposite -- it felt organic, alive.

          Claire jerked her hand back suddenly, as though the innocent flower had attempted to take a bite out of her. It had dawned on her in that moment that she had seen this flower before, and in vast quantity.

          The Winter Wood.

          As she rocked back on her heels, Claire caught sight of something else that only served to confuse her further. Etched into the headstone just above her mother's name was a small symbol. It would have been difficult to see if she'd been even a foot further away but from this angle she could see it clearly.

          Three interlocking snowflakes.

          Reaching out, Claire was surprised to find the stone was warm to the touch.

          "Excuse me, miss?"

          Startled, Claire rose quickly, turning simultaneously, to face the speaker. It was the groundskeeper, or at least, Claire assumed it was by his uniform. He was hovering nearby, his wrinkled, gnarled fingers gripping the handle of a push broom. He was old and thin and Claire couldn't help but imagine him to be in his seventies at the very least.

          He offered her a congenial smile and exposed a mouthful of crooked, yellowing teeth.

          "I don't mean to interrupt, but you're the first person I've seen visit this plot in years," he concluded, before adding, "besides Mr. Belmont of course. I guess he has finally come to stay. Are you a relative?"

          "Yes," she said, feeling a dull ache in her heart. "I'm Claire Belmont, these were my grandparents and this is my mother."

          "Ah, yes, of course," the groundskeeper replied with a low chuckle. "Your grandfather kept going on and on about how you were going to be a famous ballerina one day."

          Claire felt a pang of regret lance through her heart, sharp and aching.

          "Not much of a dancer myself," the old man continued, "wife says I was born with two left feet."

          Claire managed a small smile. Her gaze drifting back towards the headstones and the white flowers. The thought triggered another.

          "I don't mean to interrupt Mr..."

          "Redmond, Angus Redmond," the old man replied, "but you can call me Red."

          "Right, Red, do you know where these flowers come from?"

          The old man frowned, "Funny you should ask, I've worked here since I was a young man, a boy even," he began, "and I've seen all matter of exotic flowers, but for the life of me I can't figure out what this particular flower," he motioned to the white flowers decorating her mother's grave, "comes from. I wish I could! I'd make a killing selling it."

          "Why's that?" Claire asked.

          "A flower that blooms all year round, no matter the weather?" Red asked incredulously. Claire supposed she could fault him that, but what happened when no one needed anymore flowers?

          Nevertheless, Claire smiled. "I see your point, Mr. Redmond. Do you perhaps know who put it here? I would like to thank the person, perhaps even ask him where he acquired such a flower."

          Red was quit a moment and Claire couldn't help but wonder if she had come to a dead end.

          "If I had to take a guess, it's probably the man in the long, brown coat."

          "A man came here?" Claire asked, unable to keep her frown from growing deeper.

          "Yes," Red replied casually, "This one fellow shows up about once a year, around this time actually. Strange fellow. Never says a word, don't know why, and stands there for at least an hour before disappearing again. I tried to talk to him once, ignored me completely, strange fellow that one."

          Claire felt her heart squeeze as her chest grew tight. Whoever was coming here was coming from Oria, but why? What reason did this man have to visit her mother's grave? Why leave flowers?

          Claire hadn't noticed the darkening skies until the first, fat, icy drop of rain struck her cheek. It pulled her from her thoughts and she looked up to see the sky had grown

          "Best be gettin' home now, Miss Claire," Red warned gravely, "It's going to be a bad one, I can feel it in my bones."

          Red's prediction had been on point. By the time Claire turned the car onto the road leading up to the plantation house, the rain was falling in thick, icy sheets. She could barely see the house as she pulled to a stop and regretted not leaving the porch light on when she left earlier that day.

          Leaping from the car, she made a mad dash for the porch. By the time she reached the front door she was soaked through to the bone, her clothes clinging to her skin like an icy shroud. She fumbled with the handle but the door wouldn't open. Cursing under her breath, she fished around in her pocket for the key and produced it a moment later.

          Thunder rumbled ominously overhead as she struggled with numb fingers to get the key into the lock. After two tries she finally managed to slide the key home and gain entry into the warm interior of the house.

          She didn't hesitate to shed the rain soaked clothing. She knew if she didn't get warmed up and dry she was going to wind up getting sick -- something she couldn't risk with her show just around the corner. The coat went first, then her shoes. The rest of her clothing followed as she made her way upstairs to the bathroom.

          Twisting the water on in the shower, Claire waited only a minute for the water to warm before hopping under the spray. Even lukewarm the water felt hot against her skin. She stood for several minutes just letting the gradually warming water run over her skin and warm her chilled bones.

          All the while her thoughts whirled over all she had seen that day. Someone from Oria was routinely visiting her mother's grave -- but who and why?

          Once she was warm and dry again, Claire made her way through the old house to the room at the far end of the hall.

          Her mother's old room.

          If there were answers to her questions in this house, Claire was confident she would find them here. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

          Claire felt twelve again. She could see the scene playing out before her as she crossed the threshold and entered the room.

          Her mother lay in the bed surrounded by clouds of white, frothy lace. She looked thin and fragile just laying there, like one of the dozens of china dolls her grandmother kept in a glass curio case in the den. Despite the sickness that ravaged her, Nathalie Belmont was still breathtakingly beautiful.

          The dying woman, who had been gazing at something outside the window, turned towards Claire and smiled. Her lips moved as though she were speaking, but Claire heard nothing as she could not remember what her mother had said.

          Lightning flashed, throwing the room into sharp contrast. As the light faded, so too did the ghostly memory. Claire lifted her fingers to her cheeks, the tips coming into contact with tears she hadn't realized were being shed.

          Though everything in the room seemed to be standing still, the rain outside continued to fall, striking the glass with violent ferocity. The wind had picked up and caused the old wooden windows to rattle in their frames.

          Claire rubbed her arms as her gaze swept the room searching for something that looked out of place, anything that might give her a clue. Even though her mother had been dead for some time, Claire still felt strange rummaging through her things. Still, she was desperate for answers and so she forged forward checking in drawers and under the bed. She pulled down boxes out of the closet but found nothing that struck her as out of the ordinary.

          Sitting on the floor she felt the crushing weight of defeat settling over her.

          What did it all mean? The key, the flowers, the symbol. How did they all fit together, if they fit together at all? Was she simply trying to make something out of nothing? Was she trying to forge a connection that didn't exist?

          Rising slowly to her feet, Claire rubbed her hands over her face and let out a frustrated shout that was muffled against her palms. This was all just a waste of time.

          Claire spent the next few minutes returning the room to its original state. Once it no longer looked as though a whirlwind had passed through, Claire let herself out and closed the door. Crossing her arms she leaned back against the door and sighed. Nothing had been the same since she'd gotten back, nothing had felt right anymore, she no longer felt connected, like she belonged. Perhaps it was that feeling, a desperate need for validation, that had her seeing signs in otherwise mundane occurrences.

          Pushing away from the wall, Claire hadn't taken more than a few steps when the sound of glass shattering below broke the silence. Certain the storm had blown a branch or something else through a window below, Claire hurried towards the stairs to investigate.

          Just as she reached them, however, Claire heard something else that made her blood run cold.

          Footsteps.

Heavy, even, calculated footsteps.