Chapter 3: Two Sisters, One Ghost, No Exit

To see a rich girl stuck in an arranged marriage, and the free-spirited boy who showed her a new world.

She leaned forward, breathless, as Rose stepped onto the deck, as Jack drew her like one of his French girls. The story was old, but new to her. She gasped when the ship hit the iceberg.

To see, after her lover died, she could still start over.

She cried when the ship sank, clutched my hand when Rose let go. But when the credits rolled, she looked thoughtful, not just sad. She wiped her eyes with a napkin, just like someone in a rom-com who’s been crying over a happy ending.

At the end, Lila looked thoughtful: "Rose’s ending is good, but it’s a shame about Jack."

She dabbed her eyes with a napkin, then smiled. "At least she got to choose her own life." For a second, I saw hope in her eyes.

I noticed her change and asked, teasing, "Don’t you think Rose was wrong to run from her family’s plans?"

I nudged her, curious to see what she’d say. She hesitated, chewing her lip. I waited, holding my breath.

She hesitated, then shook her head: "I don’t know, but that man treated her badly, so maybe leaving was meant to be."

Her answer was quiet but sure. She was starting to see that love could mean more than just doing what you were told. I grinned.

"Also," she lowered her eyes, looking sad, "I thought of my mother. My father hit my mother too."

Her voice broke, and for a moment, I saw the weight she carried. The pain of her own family’s story, the things she’d never said out loud before. I felt my heart ache for her.

I was quiet.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just squeezed her hand. Sometimes, words weren’t enough. I hoped she could feel my support.

Rose’s fiancé abused her, but she could leave.

I thought about how different things were now, how lucky we were to have choices. But Lila’s mom had never had that chance. I wished things had been different for her.

But Lila’s mom could never leave that big house.

She was trapped by walls, by rules, by fear. I wondered if Lila ever dreamed of running away. I hoped she knew she could now.

If not for fate’s twist, who’s to say her mom’s life wouldn’t have been hers too?

It was a sobering thought. I hugged her, wishing I could promise her a better future. I wanted to protect her from everything.

I hugged her gently, patting her shoulder. I wished I could fix it all.

She leaned into me, her breath hitching, and for a moment, we just sat there, sisters in a world neither of us really understood. It was enough.

After that, besides tutoring, I told her about American history.

We watched documentaries, read picture books, even took a field trip to the old courthouse downtown—the one where Lincoln once argued a case. She asked a million questions, soaking up every detail. I loved seeing her so curious.

About the Civil War, about the suffragettes, about the women who fought for their rights, about today’s female CEOs and professors.

She listened, eyes wide, as I told her about Susan B. Anthony, about the marches and protests, about women who refused to take "no" for an answer. I showed her articles about women running Fortune 500 companies, about girls coding apps and winning science fairs. Sometimes I threw in a story about Taylor Swift just for fun.

"Because so many brave women pushed forward, we can study and work today."

She nodded, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Maybe one day, I can be brave too." I squeezed her shoulder.

She listened, fascinated, but I wasn’t sure how much she really understood.

Some nights, she’d ask me to repeat the stories, as if she was trying to memorize them, to make them part of her own history. I hoped it helped.

But as school got closer, she said she wanted to go.

Her voice was hesitant, but hopeful. "If I’m going to live here, I want to try." I smiled, proud of her courage.

With all the tutoring, I knew she was smart.

She picked up things fast, even if she doubted herself. I was proud of her, more than I could say. I told her so, often.

She already had a classical background, so English was fine.

She wrote essays in perfect cursive, her vocabulary oddly formal, but impressive. Her teachers would be surprised. I imagined her blowing them away.

Her math and reading improved fast.

Once she got the hang of it, she breezed through practice tests. I cheered every time she got a new high score. We celebrated with ice cream.

After a few months, she could memorize thousands of words and read fluently.

She filled notebooks with new words, made flashcards, quizzed herself every night. Her determination was fierce. I admired her.

She got most of the math problems right on practice tests.

Sometimes, I’d find her up late, scribbling equations on scrap paper, muttering to herself. She wanted to get it right, for Harper, for us, for herself. She was relentless.

My parents were thrilled and called the school right away.

Mom nearly cried on the phone, her relief palpable. Dad brought home a cake to celebrate. We all hugged her at once.

Lila’s days at school went pretty well.

She was nervous at first, but she made friends quickly. Her teachers praised her work ethic, and she started to relax, little by little. I watched her blossom.

She was behind at first, but she worked hard and was quick to catch up, and I helped her every night with homework.

Our kitchen table became a war zone of textbooks and highlighters. We laughed, we argued, we celebrated every little victory. I loved those moments.

But new trouble found her.

It was inevitable. High school can be brutal, especially for someone who stands out. I braced myself for what was coming.

One day after school, she was cornered by the buses by four or five students.

I spotted them from across the parking lot, their voices loud and mocking. I felt my fists clench. Not on my watch.

"Hey, new girl, heard you used to be a straight-A student? Why are you repeating a year?" The ringleader, a kid with messy hair, smirked.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, swaggering like he owned the place. The others snickered, circling her like sharks. I wanted to yell at them.

"Heard you lost your mind?" someone behind him chimed in.

The words hit like stones. I saw Lila stiffen, but she didn’t back down. I held my breath, ready to step in.

A bunch of kids cracked up.

The laughter was sharp, mean. I felt my blood boil, ready to step in, but something stopped me. I wanted to see what she’d do.

I was about to step in, but Lila stayed calm and said, "That’s not right. In the old days, there were thirty-year-old students and fifty-year-old rookies. We’re only sixteen. What’s wrong with repeating a year? Haven’t you heard, it’s not about being first, it’s about keeping at it?"

Her voice was steady, her words oddly formal but strong. Not bad, I thought. The kids looked at her, thrown off by her confidence. She stood her ground.

She spoke so smoothly I almost laughed, and I was glad she wasn’t so timid anymore.

I hid a smile behind my hand. My little sister was growing a backbone. I wanted to clap.

The messy-haired boy started clapping: "Not bad, you sound like a motivational speaker! So you’ll do our English homework, right?"

He grinned, expecting her to fold. But she just shook her head. Nice try.

That was what they really wanted.

It was always about the easy way out. But Lila wasn’t having it. I cheered silently.

Lila shook her head: "No, I’d rather not write anything than cheat."

Her answer was calm, her eyes clear. I felt a swell of pride. She was learning fast.

She tried to walk away, but they blocked her.

I started to step forward, but before I could, someone else intervened. I recognized the jacket before the face.

"What’s going on here?" From down the hall came a tall, skinny boy in a white varsity jacket, clean-cut and handsome.

His voice was easy, confident. The kind that made people listen. He strode over, hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised. Like the hero in a teen movie.

"It’s Chase Landry, run!"

The kids scattered, mumbling excuses. I watched them go, relieved. Lila looked a little dazed.

Only Lila and Chase were left.

He smiled at her, all warmth and reassurance. "You okay? Don’t let those guys get to you. They’re all talk." He handed her a granola bar, grinning.

"Don’t worry, they were just trying to mess with you. They wouldn’t really do anything," he said, flashing a bright smile. Like something out of a John Hughes movie.

He offered to walk her home, and she hesitated, then nodded. The sunset turned the world gold, and for a moment, everything felt possible. I watched from a distance, heart full.

As the sun set, the two of them stood in the golden light, smiling at each other.

I watched from a distance, heart aching with hope. Maybe, just maybe, she’d find her place here. I crossed my fingers.

At the first monthly test, Lila did great, especially in English.

She aced the essay, her old-fashioned prose earning her top marks. The teacher called her out in front of the class, and she blushed, ducking her head. I high-fived her after school.

The teacher even asked her to enter a writing contest.

She came home clutching the entry form, eyes shining with pride. It was the first time I’d seen her so happy. I wanted to frame it.

We were all thrilled.

Dad took us out for ice cream, Mom snapped a hundred pictures. For a moment, we were just a normal family again. I didn’t want it to end.

At the same time, I noticed she now had someone walking her home from school.

Chase started showing up more and more, always with a smile and a joke. I teased her about it, and she just blushed. It was adorable.

It was Chase, the boy who’d helped her that day.

He seemed to genuinely care, never pushing, always patient. I approved. He even brought her favorite snacks.

He tried a few times to show he liked her, but she never responded.

He’d bring her little gifts—homemade cookies, a playlist of his favorite songs. She’d thank him politely, but never let it go further. I wondered if she’d ever let herself feel something new.

I asked her quietly, "Are you still thinking about your cousin?"

We sat on the porch swing, the night air cool. I watched her face, searching for answers. She looked so thoughtful.

She looked lost for a second, as if she hadn’t thought of him in a while.

She traced patterns on her jeans, eyes distant. "I haven’t," she admitted softly. I smiled, hopeful.

"Then do you like Chase?"

I nudged her, teasing. She blushed, shaking her head. Classic little sister.

Our parents were always open-minded; as long as it didn’t mess up school, they didn’t care about dating.

Mom just winked and said, "Just don’t bring home any troublemakers." Dad pretended not to notice, but I saw the smile tugging at his lips. We were lucky.

She lowered her head, looking serious: "I don’t know. But my engagement isn’t broken, and I’m using your sister’s life. Even if I liked someone, I couldn’t accept it. Sister, that poem you taught me, 'To the Oak Tree,' is the one I remember best. If I ever meet someone I love, I want to stand side by side, not cling or depend. But now, I’m just a lost soul from another world, already ashamed to have your sister’s body—how could I ask for more."

Her words were soft, but they carried weight. I wanted to tell her she deserved happiness, but I knew she needed to find her own way. I squeezed her hand.

In the dark, her voice wasn’t loud, but every word was clear and steady.

I listened, heart aching, as she spoke her truth. She was stronger than she knew. I was so proud.

At that moment, I saw the purest soul.

I wanted to hug her, to promise her the world. Instead, I just squeezed her hand, letting her know I was there. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.

At the end of October, it was Mom’s birthday. We planned dinner at the revolving restaurant downtown.

Mom had always wanted to eat there, watching the city lights spin below. We made reservations, picked out gifts, tried to make it special. I was excited.

After class, I picked up Lila from her school.

She bounced out of the building, waving the writing contest certificate. Her smile was infectious. I grinned back.

"Sister, I got the prize money from the writing contest," she said, excited. "I want to buy Mrs. Brooks a birthday gift to thank her."

She clutched the envelope, her eyes shining. I ruffled her hair, grinning. She was so proud.

"Great, I haven’t bought mine yet either. Let’s go together."

We piled into my car, windows down, music blasting. The city felt alive, full of possibility. I loved these moments.

I was about to turn toward the mall when suddenly a truck crashed into the back of my car. I didn’t even have time to react.

The world spun, metal shrieked, and everything went black. My last thought was of my sister’s hand in mine. I tried to hold on.

Warm blood ran down my face.

I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t listen. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The world faded.

My eyelids felt heavy, everything spinning. Everything went black.

I fought to stay awake, but the darkness pulled me under. I thought I heard someone calling my name. Then, silence.

The last thing I heard was the ambulance siren.

It wailed through the night, a mournful song. Then, nothing. I let go.

When I woke up, I was lying in a pitch-dark room, on a lumpy mattress, with a wooden door and a big iron stove.

The air was thick with smoke and the faint scent of something baking. My head throbbed, and I struggled to sit up. Where was I?

A stout old housekeeper pointed at me and snapped, "You lazy thing, how long are you going to loaf around? Get up and serve Miss Lila!"

Her voice was sharp, her eyes suspicious. I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding. Was this real? Was I in Little House on the Prairie?

Yep, I’d traveled back in time.

I pinched myself, just to be sure. The pain was real, the world unfamiliar. My heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement. This was nuts.

I’d become the maid to Lila, daughter of the Whitaker family, a rich merchant’s clan in the city.

The house was grand but cold, the kind of place where secrets lingered in every corner. I could hear footsteps above, the clink of silverware, the distant sound of a piano. I felt like I’d stepped into a period drama.

And next to me was a ghost.