We left before dawn.
The city was still asleep, the sky dark with only hints of morning stretching beyond the buildings. James drove his sleek black SUV, his jaw tight, knuckles white around the wheel.
He hadn't said much since we left the mansion.
Neither had I.
What could we say?
We were going to chase a ghost.
His mother.
My mother's only known connection.
The woman who might still be alive.
And the only person who could unravel everything.
The road stretched out ahead, winding past towns, bridges, and endless fields of mist and silence. Eventually, James spoke.
"I was twelve when my mother 'died,'" he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road. "One night she was there, humming to herself in the garden, trimming roses. The next morning, she was gone. No funeral. No answers. Just… gone."
My heart twisted. "Did you believe she was dead?"
He nodded slowly. "At first. I cried for weeks. But then I noticed things. Her clothes disappeared. Her paintings were sold. Her name never mentioned again. It was like my father erased her… scrubbed her from existence."
I placed my hand gently over his.
His thumb brushed across mine, barely a touch—but it sent a current up my spine.
"She deserved better," I whispered.
He glanced at me then—something deep in his eyes. Something raw.
"So did your mother."
We arrived at the clinic by midday.
It was nestled on the edge of a foggy countryside, surrounded by tall pines and heavy silence. The building looked more like a former mansion than a hospital—weather-worn, quiet, guarded by a rusted iron gate.
A nurse opened the main door, squinting at us.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice clipped.
James stepped forward. "We're here to inquire about a former patient. From over a decade ago."
"We don't give out patient information."
James reached into his coat, pulled out a black leather folder, and handed her a document. It wasn't fake. It was powerful.
She read it, and her posture shifted.
"We'll need to check our sealed archives," she said quickly. "Please… wait in the family room."
We were led down a long hallway to a small chamber with faded green walls and a dusty fireplace. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air.
I sat beside James on the old velvet couch, nerves twisting inside me.
"What if we're wrong?" I whispered. "What if she's not here?"
James shook his head. "Then we find out where she went next."
"What if she's… not alive?"
He looked at me, eyes firm. "Then we make sure everyone responsible answers for it."
I wanted to say more, but the nurse returned.
And her face said everything.
"She's here," she said softly. "Still alive. But not well."
My heart nearly stopped.
James stood slowly. "Can we see her?"
The nurse hesitated. "She hasn't spoken in years. No visitors. No family. No response to therapy. But… maybe today will be different."
She led us down another corridor, this one darker, the walls older. She stopped outside a room with a window covered by sheer white curtains.
Inside, a woman sat in a rocking chair. Thin. Pale. Grey curls falling across her cheek. She was staring out the window, unmoving.
"She's… beautiful," I whispered.
James looked like he'd stopped breathing.
"Eleanor," he said softly.
She didn't turn. Didn't blink.
The nurse opened the door.
"Mrs. Windsor," she said gently. "You have visitors."
The woman didn't move.
James stepped in.
"Mother… It's me. James."
Still no response.
But something flickered in her fingers.
He kneeled slowly beside her, reaching for her hand.
"You used to sing to me," he said. "You made hot cocoa with cinnamon, and you said my laughter reminded you of summer. I remember everything."
A single tear rolled down the woman's cheek.
And then—she blinked.
James gasped.
"Eleanor?" I whispered.
Her lips parted.
But the only word she said was:
> "Sophia…"