Samayan Saha of class 5 shares the tale of Elara, who discovers mysterious scars on her forearm, triggering memories of a forgotten past and awakening something ominous in her grandmother’s attic.
The night was as dark as ink when Elara first noticed the scar. She stood before the old, cracked mirror in her grandmother’s attic, the dim light of a single candle casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. The scar, a jagged line running down her left forearm, had never been there before. She traced it with her fingers, feeling the raised skin, puzzled by its sudden appearance.
It was unlike any scar she had seen—almost like a lightning bolt, sharp and uneven. It seemed to throb under her touch- a dull ache that reached deep into her bones. But the pain wasn’t just physical; it was something more. A memory, perhaps? Yet Elara couldn’t recall any accident or injury that might have caused it.
Her grandmother, an enigmatic woman with a reputation for knowing more than she let on, had always warned her about the attic. “There are things up there that are better left undisturbed,” she’d say with a seriousness that belied her usually cheerful demeanor. But curiosity had gotten the better of Elara that evening and she’d ventured into the dusty old room lured by the promise of forgotten treasures.
As she stood, transfixed by the scar, a faint whisper echoed through the attic. It was soft, barely audible, but unmistakable. “Elara…” The voice was familiar yet distant, as if it were coming from the depths of her memory. She turned around quickly, but the attic was empty—just old furniture and boxes filled with memories long past.
The scar pulsed again, sending a shiver down her spine. With each beat, images flashed in her mind—disjointed and fragmented. A child’s laughter, the smell of burning wood, a flash of blinding light, and then… darkness.
“Elara…” The voice was closer now, more insistent. It seemed to be coming from one of the old trunks in the corner. Hesitant but compelled, Elara moved towards it, her hand trembling as she lifted the lid. Inside, she found a collection of old photographs, their edges yellowed with age. They were of her grandmother, much younger, standing beside a man Elara didn’t recognise.
But it was the last photograph that caught her breath—a picture of a little girl, no older than five, with wild curls and bright eyes. Her left arm bore the same jagged scar.
As she stared at the photograph, the memories came flooding back. The girl was her—Elara, at a time when the world was full of magic and mystery. The scar had been a mark of protection, given to her by her grandmother to shield her from an ancient curse that had threatened their family for generations. But as she grew older, the magic had faded, and with it, the memory of that night.
Now, the scar had returned, a warning of a danger that was not yet over. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind: “Some things are better left undisturbed.” But it was too late. Elara had awakened something in the attic, something that had been waiting for years to be found.
The candle flickered, and the shadows in the room seemed to move. Elara realised that the story of her scar was far from over. It was just beginning.
