Salt Crown

Chapter 2: Legacy Tastes Like Salt

The metal gate groans as I push it open.

I glance down. Weeds split the gravel where my mother once planted lilies.

“You kept it this way?” I mutter. “Dead but standing?”

My heels tap across broken stone—slow, deliberate. Each step echoes too loud against the silence.

The porch light flickers when I reach for the key beneath the third tile. Still there. Of course it is.

Inside, dust drapes the furniture like mourning veils. I don’t take them off. I don’t need to see what’s changed. I already know.

“Still cold,” I say into the shadows. “Still pretending it wasn’t a slaughterhouse.”

Floorboards creak under my steps. The kitchen door sticks the way it used to.

“Hello?” I call softly—then hate myself for it.

No one answers. Just wind, and the breath of a home that’s forgotten how to be one.

I walk to the counter and drag my fingers across the marble.

“They scrubbed you out of the world,” I whisper. “But I remember.”

The salt bowl waits on the corner of the counter—unchanged, haloed in dust.

I press my fingers to the rim. The grains crunch under my touch, hardened from time.

“You left this here… why?”

“You used to say salt keeps things clean. Pure. Preserved.”

I laugh, but it doesn’t sound like me.

“Legacy, you called it.”

I lift the bowl, shake it slightly. The crusted ring inside doesn’t move. Just like you.

“Then why did you let them burn it down, Mom? Why didn’t you fight harder?”

For a second, the air shifts. The memory rises—your back turned at the stove, humming a song only you knew.

I blink and whisper, “You smelled like rosemary and rice that night.”

Your humming fades. The kitchen returns to silence.

I place the bowl down, gentler this time.

“I came back, okay? I did what you couldn’t.”

And just for a moment… I wish you’d answer.

“Camille, go upstairs.”

“Why are there police here?”

Her voice snaps, too sharp. “Upstairs. Now.”

I don’t move. Behind her, a man in a navy suit is reading something out loud—monotone. Legal. Final.

Dad’s shouting in the study. Then something shatters.

“Mom, what’s going on?” My voice cracks.

“We’ll talk later.”

She touches my arm but won’t meet my eyes.

Two officers pass us. One holds a file. The other looks… sorry.

I grip the banister. “Are they arresting him?”

She swallows. “It’s all a mistake.”

Then I see him—cuffed, red-faced, mouth tight. “Camille, it’s okay—don’t be scared, honey.”

I whisper, “But you’re in handcuffs.”

He smiles like it’s pretend. “Go upstairs, sweetheart. I’ll explain everything.”

I wait on the stairs long after they take him. Mom never comes up.

The salt bowl on the kitchen counter is full that night. But nothing tastes right again.

The pantry door sticks. I give it a hard tug.

Dust billows out. Shelves still lined with expired cans, spices long hardened in glass jars.

“Smells like time gave up trying,” I mutter.

My fingers brush the top shelf. A yellowing card flutters down.

I kneel, pick it up.

Salt-roasted fish – 3 pinches coarse, not fine.

Your handwriting—slanted, graceful, always in blue ink.

“You always said salt pulled the best from the bones,” I whisper.

The floor is freezing. I sink down anyway, knees to tile.

“Step 3: rub oil across skin like memory.”

I chuckle. “You were so dramatic about food.”

I hold the card up. “What did you feed us that night, Mom? Before it all ended?”

The paper trembles between my hands, but I don’t.

I press the recipe to my chest, eyes dry.

“You don’t get my tears,” I tell the house.

Not today.

I unzip the inner pocket of my purse.

The letter’s still there—sealed, creased at the edges, addressed in handwriting I’d know even in the dark.

“For Camille.”

I whisper it like a curse.

My thumb hovers over the flap. I don't tear it open.

“You waited until after everything broke,” I say to the air. “And then what? Wrote this like it was enough?”

I press it to my chest. It’s warm now.

“I didn’t want your goodbye. I wanted you to look me in the eye while everything burned.”

The kitchen light flickers, like it’s reacting. I ignore it.

“You let me stand in the ashes without a word, and now I’m supposed to read one?”

I stare down at the envelope. “It’s too late for this kind of softness.”

I slip it back in my purse.

“You don’t get to choose when the conversation ends, Mom.”

Another silence added to the pile.

The study door sticks, like it always did. I shoulder it open.

The desk drawers squeak in protest. Inside the second one, I find them—

gold cufflinks, polished, arrogant.

“You kept these?” I murmur.

I hold them up to the window. They catch no light.

“Did you ever think I’d come back here?” I ask the empty leather chair. “Did you ever care?”

The air stays still.

I close my fist around the metal. “You lied to her. To me.”

Flash—his voice, deep and playful.

“Always look them in the eye when you’re hiding something, kiddo.”

I was ten. He said it like it was a party trick.

“And smile,” the memory continues. “Never blink first.”

I laugh once. “I should’ve known it was a survival tactic.”

I place the cufflinks back where I found them.

“You taught me too well, Dad.”

And that’s the part I hate the most.

The hallway smells like wood polish and old air.

I stop in front of the framed portrait.

We’re all in white—posed, pristine, frozen.

“You’re still here?” I murmur.

My fingers graze the glass. The girl in the center stares back—me, maybe twelve. Hair braided tight, lips smiling like she hadn’t learned to lie yet.

“You were naive,” I say to her. “You thought a family name could protect you.”

I tilt my head. “You didn’t know what a boardroom could do to a man.”

Dad’s hand rests on my shoulder in the photo. Mom’s pearls shine like truth.

I exhale. “You didn’t see the cracks. I don’t blame you.”

My voice softens. “You believed in all of it.”

I lean forward, forehead almost touching the glass.

“I hope you stayed soft. Even if I couldn’t.”

The hallway stays quiet. So does she.

And I leave her there.

The first drop hits the back of my neck as I push open the rooftop door.

I look up. “Seriously?” I mutter. “Even now?”

The sky answers with a slow, steady drizzle.

I step into the garden. It’s overgrown, wild with vines. Rosemary choked out by thorns. Moss coating the edges of the stone bench.

“This used to be ours,” I say, brushing aside a vine. “Now it’s just... abandoned.”

I crouch by the planter where Mom grew basil. “They even ruined this.”

Rain softens the soil beneath my knees.

Flash—her hands towel-drying my hair, thunder rolling outside.

“Storms clean the world, Camille. Let them.”

I whisper to the wind, “Then why did ours take everything?”

No answer. Just rain on leaves.

I close my eyes and let the water hit my face.

“I’m still here, Mom.”

I stay in the downpour until I feel nothing but breath and ache.

And I don’t move.

My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, sharp against the damp fabric.

I pull it out and read the message:

“You were seen leaving early. Is everything alright?”

Of course they’re watching.

I thumb open the reply. Start typing.

“Emergency. Won’t happen again.”

I stare at the screen. Fingers still.

“Or should I just tell you I was visiting the crime scene?” I say to the blinking cursor.

I start a new reply:

“I was visiting a grave.”

I don’t send it. Instead, I hit backspace—slow, deliberate.

Letter by letter, I erase the truth.

“There’s no room for that version of me,” I whisper, “not in your world.”

I retype the original excuse.

My thumb hovers. Then taps send.

The message sends. I slip the phone back into my pocket.

“Clara Rowe,” I mutter. “She knows how to behave.”

But Camille Hale?

She’s clawing at the seams.

The USB clicks into place. The screen wakes with a soft blue pulse.

I lean in. “Don’t freeze on me now.”

A folder appears. All caps. No mercy: HALE_HISTORY_DELETED

I double-click. Subfolders unfold like old scars—dates, statements, documents I remember from whispers.

“Come on, come on…”

There it is. A video file. Timestamped the night everything ended.

I hit copy. The bar crawls across the screen, inch by painful inch.

Just as it finishes—ERROR: FILE CORRUPTED.

I freeze. “No. No, not this one.”

I try again. Same result.

I press my forehead to the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

My breath fogs the glass.

“This is the one I need,” I say to the silence. “This is the one they buried.”

The screen flickers like it’s listening.

I sit back, staring at the frozen file.

“Of course,” I whisper. “Always the one I need.”

I don’t delete it.

Some ghosts deserve to be chased.

I almost miss it.

A tiny audio file, buried deep. No name. No timestamp.

I double-click. Static crackles—then her voice slices through.

“If you’re hearing this, it means you found the salt.”

My breath catches. I don’t move.

“Mom?” I whisper into the light of the screen. “Is this real?”

The audio crackles again. “They’ll come for the name. But not for the girl. That’s how they win.”

My hands fly to my mouth.

“You knew,” I say through my fingers. “You knew they were going to erase us.”

I lean closer, desperate for more. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you wait until—”

“You were too young. But I left pieces.”

A pause. Then softly, “Camille... forgive me for surviving longer than I should have.”

The file ends.

No soft fade. Just silence.

And I sit there, the dark hugging my spine, whispering—“I’m not the girl anymore.”

I pull open the bottom drawer of the old vanity.

Underneath a velvet pouch and broken brooches, there it is—creased, sun-faded.

Our photo.

“Nate…” I whisper. “I forgot I still had this.”

We’re sitting on the dock behind my house. Laughing. Barefoot. His hand’s brushing mine like it meant nothing. Like we didn’t know it meant everything.

“You always smiled like you knew a secret,” I say to his frozen face.

I trace the curve of his jaw with my thumb.

“You said you’d come back. That you’d find me. So where the hell were you?”

I hold it closer. “You disappeared while they destroyed everything. Did you watch? Did you flinch?”

My voice breaks before I can stop it. “You could’ve saved something.”

But I don’t drop the photo.

I press it flat against the inside cover of my journal.

“Maybe I’ll ask you in person someday.”

Or maybe I won’t have to.

The envelope is thicker than I remember.

I slide the deed out slowly, careful not to tear it. My fingers already know this paper’s weight.

But the name stops everything.

“Nathaniel Rivers,” I read aloud.

The thunder outside rumbles like it’s reacting.

“You’re on the title?” I whisper. “This house… it was part of your inheritance too?”

The corner of the paper curls from my grip, but I tighten my hold.

“You knew,” I say through clenched teeth. “You were part of it all along.”

I turn toward the window. Rain streaks the glass like memory bleeding.

“You stood in my ruin and said nothing.”

My chest tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My voice cracks. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

I look down at the signature.

“You watched them bury me.”

Lightning flashes. The room flickers.

I fold the deed once. Sharp. Precise.

“You came back,” I murmur. “But not for me.”

Cut to black.

Thunder rolls.