I went to visit my mom. She was cleaning out the attic and asked me to help. We opened an old chest filled with dusty photo albums, letters, and boxes wrapped in cloth. As I flipped through one album, a photograph fell to the floor. I bent down, picked it up… and nearly dropped it again.

It was the exact same baby from the locket. “Mom… who is this?” I asked, holding up the photo with shaking hands. She looked at it and went pale. “Where did you get that?” she asked, her voice cracking. I told her about the package. About the locket.

She sat down slowly and put her hand over her mouth. “That baby… was your sister,” she whispered. “You had a sister. She died before her first birthday. We buried her with that exact locket around her neck.”

I couldn’t breathe. “But… how? Who sent it? Why now?” My mother had no answers. We sat in silence, both staring at the locket. I’ve kept it ever since. But sometimes, at night… I swear I hear a baby laughing from the corner of my room.