The attic was silent, the air thick with the scent of dust and long-forgotten memories. Maya held the document Daniel gave her in one hand and her sketchbook in the other. The pages—once just doodles—now felt like maps.
"Project Harrowgate," she whispered to herself. The name alone sounded like fiction, but Daniel's eyes hadn't lied.
Downstairs, Grace brewed tea as though it were any other day, but Maya could feel the tension rippling beneath her skin. She needed answers—deeper ones.
She sat at the old desk, sketching again. As she let her pencil move freely, the images unfolded faster than her thoughts: a woman with violet eyes, a circular room filled with mirrors, a figure in a white coat whispering her name.
And then—pain.
Maya gasped as a sudden sharp flash exploded behind her eyes. But it wasn't just pain—it was clarity.
"Maya?" Daniel's voice came from behind the door. She didn't respond. Her body trembled, and then she reached into the space under the desk. Her fingers found a loose panel. Behind it… a journal.
It wasn't hers. It was her father's.
Inside, his handwriting crawled across yellowed pages:
> "They took everything from her. But she still draws. God, she still draws. If she remembers… they'll come for her again. But I hope she remembers anyway. Because when she does, the world changes."
Maya closed the journal, her breath shaky. "I have to find the rest."
Daniel stepped closer. "That was your breakthrough, wasn't it? You remembered what they didn't want you to."
Maya nodded. "And I'm not running anymore."