The Ice That Lied Secrets frozen in a river's depths

The Blackwater River lay still under a shroud of winter, its icy surface a mirror to the pale moon above. For decades, it had guarded its secrets, its frozen depths whispering tales no living soul could hear-until the thaw. On that frigid January night, beneath the gnarled willows of the old grove, a discovery broke the silence: a journal, wrapped in oilcloth, its pages brittle with age and mystery.
The silver daisy pin attached to it gleamed like a beacon, calling Briana Voss from her quiet life in Portland to a past she never knew she carried. As she traced the looping script of Eleanor Voss-a name that echoed her own-she felt the weight of a story buried not just in ice, but in blood and time. This was no mere relic; it was a summons, a thread pulled from the fabric of her family's forgotten history, daring her to unravel the lies the river had held for so long.