I woke to a world of white, my mind a blank canvas. A strange, unplaceable feeling stirred deep within me as I tried to sit up. My limbs felt heavy, and a gentle hand pressed against my shoulder, easing me back down.

“No, Adrielle,” my aunt said softly. Her eyes, red and puffy from tears, glistened beneath a fragile smile.

“Nurse, she’s awake! She’s awake!” she called out, her voice trembling with hope.

The door swung open, and three figures in white hurried in, one clearly the doctor. He leaned in close, shining a small flashlight into my eyes, carefully checking my pupils.

“Adrielle, can you hear me?” the doctor asked as he pressed two fingers against my wrist, checking my pulse. A nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm, the soft hiss of inflation filling the air, while another adjusted the IV drip, scribbling notes on a clipboard.

“Reflex check,” the doctor murmured, lifting my arm and tapping my knee gently. My leg twitched in response, and he gave a small nod. “Good. Prep for a full neurological assessment,” he instructed, glancing at the nurse. “Order imaging and blood work—immediately.”

The nurse gave a reassuring squeeze to my hand before stepping away. “Welcome back, Ms. Watson,” she whispered with a gentle smile.

The doctor’s gaze softened as he turned back to me. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, but you’re here now,” he said. “We’ll take things slow—one step at a time.”

I struggled to piece together what had happened, but my mind was blank. Even my most recent memories felt like a jumbled mess. Panic clawed at me. “Auntie!” I called out, my voice trembling. She turned to me instantly, her expression filled with concern. “What happened? I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

The steady beeping of the heart monitor quickened, mirroring the rising pulse in my chest.

“You need to focus on getting better, my dear,” she said gently, placing a comforting hand on mine. “I’ll explain everything when the time is right.”

A few years passed, and all my auntie ever told me was that I’d fallen off a cliff, suffering a mild brain injury. I was lucky, she said—only a strained arm and some scattered wounds. Apparently, I’d been in a coma for two months. People often remarked how fortunate I was, murmuring about guardian angels and unseen forces guiding me back.

I recovered gradually, but something never quite felt right. Every time snow began to fall, a strange unease crept over me. My eyes would widen, and I’d hear faint whispers—voices of all kinds, overlapping in a murmur I couldn’t understand. Voices from nowhere… and everywhere.

One crisp December morning, I found my way back to music. I traveled to Las Vegas for a Christmas special, performing alongside other musicians with my violin and flute. As I stepped onto the stage, the audience’s worried expressions softened, replaced by relief and anticipation. They had missed me.

The moment my bow touched the strings, I felt their joy—a genuine, heartwarming energy that filled the room. It was unexpected, especially after months of rumours swirling online about my supposed suicide attempts or retirement from music. But none of that mattered now.

I returned home with a friend—a fellow violinist I’d met shortly after being discharged. She had moved in next door around the same time, offering quiet support when I needed it most. Despite being a stranger then, she became a steady presence, helping my aunt and even my therapist on days when I struggled to find my footing.

“I heard the first snowfall is due any moment now,” Lorelei remarked as we stepped off the bus. After the accident, I couldn’t bring myself to drive anymore. My car had long since been sold. Just the thought of gripping the wheel sent my heart racing, a surge of anxiety crashing over me like a wave. Whenever I dared touch it, memories of falling and tumbling flooded back, forcing me to retreat.

“You’ve got a performance at the church tonight. Are you sure about this?” Lorelei asked. “You always get tense on snowy days. It’s like the snow puts you in a mood.”

I swallowed hard. I hadn’t expected the first snowfall to arrive tonight when I agreed weeks ago. The timing felt almost cruel.

“But,” I managed, my voice strained, “I already promised the city folk I’d be there.”

Night fell, and thankfully, the snow held off. The performance went well, the crowd’s merry singing still echoing in my mind as I stepped outside to wait for a cab. But just as I stood there, the first flakes began to drift down, cold and silent. And with them, the whispers returned.

“You’re a bad woman, Adrielle.”

“You’re nothing.”

“You left me alone!” The voice of a young girl cut through the air, chilling and strangely familiar. “You let me die!”

My heart raced. The words echoed in my mind like a haunting melody, too real to ignore.

“Miss Watson, are you alright?” A tap on my shoulder jolted me out of my trance. The woman’s voice was gentle, but her touch made my skin prickle.

"Go away. Let me go!" I screamed, my voice raw with panic. The words spilled out before I could stop them. It was only when I saw the crowd around me, people returning home from the mass, that I realized what I had done.

In my frantic state, I’d pushed the woman, the one who’d spoken to me, hard. She stumbled back, falling to the ground with a sickening thud.

"Miss Watson?" Her voice trembled as she looked up at me, eyes wide in surprise and confusion.

I froze, horror setting in. Around us, people’s eyes were fixed on me, some already holding up their phones, capturing the moment. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, but it was too late to take it back.

I glanced at the woman, still holding her arms, trying to steady her. "Are you alright, ma'am?" I asked again, my voice trembling as I attempted to regain control. Her expression was still filled with confusion, and the surrounding crowd murmured in hushed tones, some glancing at me nervously.

The voices—those voices—were growing louder, more insistent. "You're a failure."

"You're nothing but trouble."

“Everything fine, miss?” one person asked, leaning in with concern.

I nodded, but the knot in my stomach tightened. “I’m fine, it’s just... just this voice,” I muttered. “Can’t you hear it?”

The people around me shifted uneasily, a couple backing away. "Uh, no," one of them said, eyeing me like I was a danger to myself. "Maybe you should sit down, Miss Watson. You don’t look well."

I could feel their eyes on me, judgment creeping in, but the voices in my head drowned out their words. I felt my grip on reality slipping as the whispers continued, relentless, unforgiving. "You should have helped her. You should have stopped before it was too late."

With the snow swirling, voices echoing, and that prying gaze following me, I gripped my violin case tighter and sprinted. A cab soon pulled up, the driver offering me a ride.

I hesitated, then recalled the hills my parents had shown me before they left. "Can you take me to Willowbough Hill?" I said.

After a long journey to the province, I stood beneath the hill, the cold air sending shivers down my spine. As I ascended the cobbled steps, a heavy weight settled in my chest.

Every time the snow falls every year, images of a woman appear before me. If only I could discover who she was—perhaps she held the answers, and maybe she'd help silence the voices.

Her image persisted—ebony hair flowing straight, pink lips, light brown skin. I could almost hear her voice, faintly singing, blending with the overpowering clamour of the negative voices.

At the summit, the cityscape unfolded before me, its night lights flickering and streets alive with noise. Ahead, my parents' tomb stood in quiet wait, but there were no flowers beside them—just another grave marked Kalista Watson.

"Kalista?" I whispered, confusion tightening my chest. I couldn’t recall her, yet tears flowed endlessly. "Who are you?"