That night, the inn was restless. The storm outside had returned, rattling the shutters, scraping tree branches against the walls like claws. Robert finally drifted into a shallow sleep at the desk, papers spread across him, his head heavy with exhaustion.
But William lay awake. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching.
When the candle guttered low, he heard it—a soft laugh, gentle and familiar. His chest tightened.
"Will…"
He froze. The voice was warm, soothing, exactly as he remembered. Slowly, he turned toward the corner of the room.
And there she was. His mother.
She looked exactly as she had in his earliest memories—hair falling in loose curls, a kind smile on her lips, eyes that glowed with love. She reached out a hand toward him, her voice trembling with tenderness.
"My sweet boy… come here. You don't have to be afraid anymore."
Tears stung William's eyes. For years, he had longed to see her again, to hear her voice. He wanted nothing more than to run to her, to feel her arms around him.
But a flicker of doubt gnawed at him. It can't be real.
Robert stirred in his chair, shifting in his sleep. William's mother—or the Hollow wearing her face—leaned closer, whispering urgently now.
"You don't need him," she said, her gaze flicking toward Robert. "He doesn't understand you like I do. He keeps secrets. He drags you into danger. But me… I can keep you safe. I can take you home."
William's breath caught. The words wrapped around him like a warm blanket, pulling him closer to the edge. His hand even twitched toward hers, aching to believe.
But then he remembered the children. The sheriff's warning. The shadow's laughter.
He jerked his hand back, his body shaking.
His mother's face faltered, the warmth draining into something colder, hungrier. Her smile twisted, sharp as broken glass.
"Soon," she whispered. "You'll see the truth. He can't protect you. Not from me."
And then she was gone, swallowed by the darkness as the candle died completely.
William lay trembling in the dark, his heart pounding. He wanted to tell his father. To warn him.
But the words lodged in his throat. Because part of him, deep down, wanted to believe she was real.
_____________________________
Morning came gray and heavy. Robert rubbed the sleep from his eyes at the desk, his neck stiff, while William sat quietly on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
"Did you sleep?" Robert asked, trying to sound casual.
William hesitated, then shrugged. "A little." His voice was flat, distant.
Robert frowned but didn't press. He was too tired, too weighed down by the search for answers. He gathered the papers and stood, already planning their next step. "We'll go back to the sheriff this afternoon. If there's anything left he hasn't told me, I'll force it out of him."
William's gaze flicked up at that—sharp, almost accusing. "You mean force him? Like you force everyone else?"
The words hit harder than Robert expected. He turned, confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"
William looked away, jaw tight. "Nothing."
But Robert saw it—the distance, the crack that hadn't been there before. Something had shifted in the boy's eyes, as if a shadow had settled between them.
He wanted to reach out, to remind his son that they were in this together, but the moment slipped through his fingers. William stood and moved to the window, his back to his father.
Robert sighed. The silence between them felt heavier than the storm outside.
Neither of them knew that the Hollow was listening still, feeding on the unspoken words, widening the rift with invisible hands.
And William, though he said nothing, could still feel his mother's voice echoing in his chest:
He doesn't understand you like I do