9.30 AM.
Folding cash into my palm, just in case. I walked down to the reception, when the morning was still polite and the chandelier hadn't decided whether to flick.
The clerk was a young man—less experienced I think. He smiled too wide when I put my hands in the counter. Its make me uncomfortable.
"Good morning, ma'am. How can I help you?"
I slid a photograph across the polished wood — my mother sitting in a wool coat, cigarette ash on the edge of a napkin, a half-closed smile. I watched the boy's thumb brush the corner, the way a reader smooths a page they shouldn't be seeing twice.
""Well," I began, keeping my tone light, "my mother used to stay here not too long ago. She was… very pleased with your service. She'd love to book the same room again — lake view, cozy decoration, the one she always asked for. Her name is Serena—Serena Löwend…"
I stopped. Her name tasted bitter on my tongue, dry like the air before rain.
"Serena Löweldeld," I finished, the word almost breaking.
"Pardon me, ma'am. Let me check the system to see which room she stayed in. Give me a few seconds."
The hum of the lobby filled the silence — soft jazz, the clink of cups, a printer starting somewhere behind him.
"Oh—ma'am, I apologize. Could I have her name again? And maybe the email or phone number she used for the booking?"
I gave him what he wanted. My fingers tapped against the cold porcelain counter, slow, steady, almost too steady. My mind was already running a thousand simulations — how to talk, when to smile, what to say if he started asking questions he shouldn't.
Because if anything slipped out of my control, this polite little nerd was going to find out exactly how unpleasant I could be.
"Ah, here it is," the receptionist said finally, his tone too casual to be reassuring. He scrolled, eyes flicking across the monitor. "Your mother stayed here about… six months ago, correct?"
What?
My mind go flat as my heart, six months?.
Mother passed away years ago, and now is look like she waking up from death and booked a hotel for herself.
How ridiculous that can be ?
"Correct," I lied, my voice steady — though my heartbeat wasn't. I will play along with this guy.
"What is the exact day?"
"Is 24 March, ma'am. She booked under her name, yes, but…" His brows furrowed slightly. "It seems the actual guest registered on arrival was someone else. A man. He stayed the full week."
I blinked once, slow, as if the meaning needed time to bleed through.
"A man?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid there's no record of her checking in personally. Everything was done under the same booking."
My throat tightened. Of course. Of fucking course.
My mother — the woman who wouldn't even trust an ATM — booking a room for someone else? For a man? It didn't fit. None of it fit.
I forced out a thin smile. "Can you… tell me his name or did she came here anytime and booked directly here?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, privacy policy."
Of course. Always the rules. Always the lines between what I could touch and what I couldn't.
I pressed my thumb against the counter, just once, until it hurt — grounding myself. The pressure, the pattern, the familiar sting. One, two, three. Again. Again.
My head was buzzing, words looping, thoughts overlapping until I couldn't tell which were real and which were just noise.
Maybe it wasn't a lover. Maybe it was work. Maybe it was a setup. Maybe someone used her name. Maybe she knew.
The "maybes" piled up like static in my mind, each one heavier than the last.
"I understand the policy," I said evenly, sliding a folded note across the polished surface. "But this involves an open case under the Moscow Special Investigation Unit. I'd appreciate your discretion."
My badge caught the light — not as a threat, but as confirmation. Something solid to rest on while my pulse climbed too fast in my throat.
The man's eyes flicked from the money to the badge, then to me. He hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and finally lowered his voice.
"It… it was under the name Raphael Moretti," he said. "Booked for six nights. Room 807, lake view."
Raphael Moretti. Who the hell is that?
Silence.
The word lingered. My thumb pressed once against the counter. Then again. Then again. The rhythm grounded me — my small ritual to stop the spin, the rush of thought that never really quieted, not even when I turned off the aids and let the world fall away.
Of course she'd booked it. Of course it had to be him. Every trace of calm I'd built since leaving Moscow cracked at the edges.
"Thank you," I said softly, tucking my badge away. My hearing aids whirred faintly as I adjusted the volume down, muting his polite goodbye.
Outside, rain had started — fine, quiet, like static. The hotel's neon lights blurred across the puddles, breaking my reflection into fragments.
He needs silence.
Maybe he did.
But silence was the one thing I never learned to live with.
I returned to my room, where Lucas was already up and waiting. His expression was unreadable.
"Well," he said, standing. "Didn't know you were having breakfast alone without me." He pouted, ridiculously.
"Fucking hell, Lucas," I muttered, tossing my bag onto the chair. "You're a grown-ass adult. What was that supposed to be?"
He only shrugged, that lazy grin flickering back. "Guess I just missed your charming morning attitude."
"Get dressed," Lucas said, grabbing his jacket. "You look like you haven't eaten in days."
"Didn't I just tell you to stop acting like my babysitter?" I grumbled, but followed him anyway.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. My reflection stared back at me — pale, sleepless eyes and the faint gleam of my hearing aids catching the dim hotel light. Lucas said nothing, just shoved his hands into his pockets.
When we stepped out, I found myself slowing down. Room 807 loomed at the end of the corridor, the brass numbers dulled with age. My chest tightened — that was the room. The one she booked. For him.
I didn't stop. Just walked past, eyes forward, pretending I didn't feel the weight of it pressing against my back. Lucas glanced sideways but didn't ask. He didn't need to.
By the time we reached the restaurant, the smell of roasted coffee and bread barely masked the nausea crawling up my throat.
"Anna?" he asked quietly, pulling out a chair.
"I'm fine," I lied, forcing a thin smile.
The clinking of porcelain and low hum of morning chatter filled the restaurant, but to me it all sounded slightly muffled — the way sound always bends through my hearing aids. Too clear in some places, too distant in others. I hated that imbalance.
Lucas ordered for both of us without asking. Typical. He slid the cup of black coffee toward me.
"Drink," he said simply.
I wrapped my hands around it, needing the warmth. The steam fogged my glasses, a thin veil between me and the world.
"Still thinking about your dad?" His tone was careful, as if testing thin ice.
I exhaled, long and quiet. "Nah, just—thinking about finding any job soon, my dad will freaking out if I still say I'm unemployed after acting like a spoiled brat in his home."
Lucas chuckled, he takes a sip of his coffee, then look at the raining sky out of the window near our table.
"It's not being spoiled, Anna, you just being realistic—somehow defensively about yourself , I thought so."
My eyes were still glued to the plate of baguettes in front of me, layer upon layer, the omelette perfectly folded, the yolk gleaming and slowly oozing onto the bread. I could almost trace its warmth with my mind, imagining how each layer held its place, delicate but precise.
The waitress appeared, carrying my hot cocoa milk, her steps careful—or so it seemed. Then she stumbled over something on the floor. My heart skipped. The cup tilted, and hot liquid splashed across my left arm. A searing burn, sticky and sharp, coated my sleeve.
"Ouch!!" I hissed sharply, yanking my sleeve off in one frantic motion and tipping the ice water bucket over my reddened skin. The shock of the cold made me shiver violently, but it numbed the burn just enough.
Lucas jumped up immediately, his eyes scanning the red streaks along my arm. "Luckily, it's just the surface," he said, relief in his voice.
I didn't respond right away. My ears were ringing—not from the cocoa spilling, but from the sudden cacophony: the crash of the cup, the waitress's startled gasp, the clatter of dishes, the faint hum of the café heater. My hearing aid amplified every sound, and for a moment, it felt like the noise was drilling into my skull.
"I'm sorry, dear—but the lesson needs this…"
That voice.
That fucking voice.
It crawled out from the back of my skull, echoing beneath the hum of the café, cutting through Lucas's words, through the sound of the rain. My breath caught. The same tone, calm and cold, the way he spoke right before the fire touched my skin.
He had called it training. A lesson. As if pain was something to measure, to study, to survive through obedience. I could almost feel the heat again—ghostly, crawling under my skin, the burn flaring in memory more real than the one on my arm now.
My hand trembled as I reached for the napkin. The café blurred for a second; the present and the past overlapped in smoke and static
"I'm so sorry, ma'am." Her voice trembled as she fluttered backward, hands shaking so hard the tray nearly slipped again. She looked pale—too pale—exactly like I must have looked back then, in that dark moment I still couldn't erase.
"Maya," I said quietly, reading the name stitched onto her tag. The letters were slightly smudged, probably from the rain. She couldn't be older than twenty, maybe younger. Her slippers squelched softly against the brick floor, soaked through. The rain outside had turned the ground slick, a mirror of the chaos inside me.
"Well," I managed a thin smile, my voice steadier than I felt. "New lesson—don't wear slippers when it's raining."
The girl's eyes lifted to mine, wide and uncertain. For a second, it wasn't Maya standing there. It was me—years ago, shaking, apologizing for something I hadn't deserved, someone telling me pain was a lesson.
The cocoa stain still burned against my arm, but this time, I didn't flinch. Some lessons stayed with you, whether you wanted them or not.
"Where is the manager then?" I sound coldly at this time, but not intending to scare her. Her face go completely pale, her legs shaking and I can see her sweating even is 15 degrees in autumn, also raining.
A middle-age man, running with hurry, with that sloppy sound of his fucking slippers also, my gaze flicking to the others waiters—they also wearing slippers have their brand logo on it. Could be to honour their brand??
"Oh, miss Löwendeld, is been a lon—…,". His eyes gaze over my red arm. A loudly yelp from his mouth make my hearing aids go blank. "Jesus Christ!"
He turned to Maya, the girl now look like she don't have any blood much in her body now, eyes widen with fear and nervous.
"Stupid Maya!," he twisted her ear painfully, make she whining, drawing attention from other guests at there. Lucas stand up and clear his throat.
"Well sir, we don't want this situation to escalate any farther, my friend will go check up at the hospital for now." His voice calmly, yeah, he not the one who being poured all the hot almost boiling water on.
"I can see it's just—just on the surface," Maya stammered, her voice small and quivering, almost like a frightened hamster. "If you take care of it… use some cream to soothe it, and be careful, it'll heal. It won't leave a scar."
Her words came out in pieces, trembling between guilt and concern. She was trying—trying so hard to sound calm, to sound useful—but her hands gave her away. They wouldn't stop shaking. The tray still rattled faintly in her grasp, the sound echoing against my hearing aid, sharp as glass.
"Stop shaking that little tray, young girl,". I stared at her. "If you know how to fix your problems, then do It, don't just stay there and shaking like you will be executed."
Maya hesitated for a second before setting the tray down. Running to the kitchen behind. Then return with a medic box.
Her fingers fumbled for the first-aid kit behind the counter, the small plastic box clattering as she opened it.
"Let me… I'll bandage it for you," she murmured, almost asking for permission.
I didn't move. The café air smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, sharp against the fading scent of rain. She tore a strip of gauze with careful hands, though they were still trembling. When the fabric brushed my skin, I flinched—not from pain, but from the memory it carried. The pressure, the touch, too similar to other hands long ago, ones that didn't mean to heal.
Maya froze. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," I said quickly, though my voice sounded distant to my own ears. "It's fine. Keep going."
Through the soft static in my hearing aid, I caught the sound of her breath—a fragile, uneven rhythm that mirrored my own. She wrapped the gauze layer by layer, gentle but uncertain, as if afraid that one wrong move might reopen something deeper than the burn itself.
"I will buy some cream for you…". She softly, almost…still scared of me.
"Stupid Maya, look what you've done to Miss Löwendeld!" The manager's voice cut through the hum of the café, sharp and loud enough to make a few customers turn their heads. "We are terribly sorry, miss. She's new here—barely a week in. Still… inexperienced."
Maya's head bowed instantly, like a reflex. "I'm really sorry," she whispered, her fingers clutching the edge of her apron.
Enough," I said quietly.
The word slipped out before I even realized I'd spoken. The manager blinked, startled. Maya froze, her hands still trembling around the roll of gauze.
"She already said she's sorry," I added, my voice steadier this time. "No need to repeat the lesson."
I standing up, looking at Lucas. "I need to use the restroom, wait me here."
Lucas just raised a brow but didn't argue — maybe he sensed that edge in my tone, the one that usually meant don't worry sbout me.
As I made my way through the hallway, the light shifted — dimmer, softer. My steps echoed against the marble floor, and that's when I saw it.
A memorial board lined the wall, framed with brass and polished glass, celebrating honored guests who had graced the restaurant over the years. Rows of smiling faces, champagne glasses, winter coats, and golden plaques beneath them.
And then — her.
My breath caught.
Serena Löwendeld.
My mother.
The photo captured her mid-laugh, elegant as ever, her posture perfect. Is her beauty prime, so classic but elegant, with red lipstick and her black hair. My mouth curving up, to mimicking hers, I won't never can.
But next to her — or rather, the edge of someone next to her — had been cropped out. Only a fragment remained: a wrist in a dark tailored sleeve, and a luxury watch glinting under the flash. Something about it was deliberate — that precision of the cut, almost surgical.
I leaned closer, tracing the glass unconsciously with my fingertip. My reflection stared back at me — pale, wide-eyed, unblinking.
For a moment, the ticking of the lobby clock blurred into the rhythm in my head. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. Obsessive. Controlled.
The need to use the restroom completely vanished from my mind.
Hell, I almost peed my pants right there.
My pulse thudded in my ears as I stared at the photo, the cropped wrist, the flash of that luxury watch — a detail too deliberate to be coincidence.
I straightened up, forcing a breath, brushing invisible dust off my coat — a pointless reflex to calm the storm in my head. My fingers twitched, craving order, wanting to realign the frames on the wall, smooth out every uneven edge. Anything to stop thinking.
I tore my eyes away from the frame, forcing myself to walk. Each step felt mechanical, like I was dragging my body back into a role I'd almost forgotten how to play. The air in the restaurant was warmer, too warm, and the clatter of plates and soft jazz made everything feel unnervingly ordinary.
Lucas looked up the second I came back. "You were gone a while," he said, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp as always.
"I took a detour," I replied, sliding into my chair. My fingers found the edge of the napkin, folding it once, then again, perfectly aligned. I could feel his stare pressing against me, waiting for the truth to leak out somewhere between my silence.
Maya was still standing by the entrance, her posture too stiff, the polite smile glued to her face as she greeted customers.
"I'd like to have a word with that girl," I said evenly, turning to the manager beside my table.
He blinked. "Uh—Miss, she's on duty, I—"
"Would you mind," I cut him off gently, my voice soft but firm, "if I borrow her for a while?"
Our eyes met. I didn't blink.
And just like that, I saw it—the flicker of understanding. The subtle shift of his throat as he swallowed. He knew who I was. Or at least, what kind of woman he was dealing with.
He nodded quickly. "Of course, ma'am."
I smiled—barely. "Good choice."
Lucas tensed between us, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His head snapped up when I called his name.
"Lucas."
"Yeah?"
"Shall we go?" I tilted my head slightly, not waiting for his answer. The air around us felt heavier, charged — like something was about to give.
Before he could say another word, I was already on my feet, coat in hand, heading toward the exit. Lucas sighed and followed, scraping his chair against the floor.
That's when it happened.
A waiter slipped — a flash of white shirt, silver tray spinning through the air. The sound of shattering porcelain cracked through the restaurant. Dishes, cutlery, an entire course of something expensive rained down in a spectacular disaster.
"Shit."
I hissed sharply, hand instinctively turning off my hearing aids, walking fast to the car waiting.
"Young girl!"
I called her. "Yes, you!"
Maya eyes widen, she hesitated before asking for nearby waiter to take her position. She ran out under the heavy rain.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Get in there," I gestured her to the backseat. "Didn't you said you will buy me some sooth cream?"
I could see the flicker of hesitation in her eyes — that tiny tremor between fear and greed.
"Well, girl," I said quietly, slipping the envelope across the table, "you'd rather lose two thousand euros than a hundred, right?"
Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. That was all I needed. She got into the car without another word.
"See?" I murmured as I slid into the back seat. "Money always works."
Lucas let out a low chuckle as he started the engine, pulling out of the restaurant's yard. The tires hissed against the wet pavement, the city already swallowed by the grey of the afternoon.
The air inside the car felt heavy — thick with silence. I could hear her breathing, shallow, uneven. Every few seconds, her eyes darted to the rearview mirror, like she was checking if she'd made the right choice.
"So, Maya," I said finally, my tone calm but deliberate, "who introduced you to this restaurant? Who told you to work there?"
Her fingers twisted around the strap of her purse, knuckles white. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer. Then her voice came out small, almost trembling:
"It was… it was someone from the old staff list, ma'am. I—I just filled in after…"
She trailed off.
"After who?" I pressed.
Her silence was louder than thunder.
"Im not living here, I moved here just a few months ago, studying university—," she stopped.
"The tuition is too high, my mother salary can barely afford it, so—…I just want to find a part time job to pay my family debt and tuition.."
I glanced at her in the mirror, a typical type of girl who studying abroad.
"Which school are you studying right now?"r
"LMU…"
That's the school my mother used to studied, before becoming the greatest journalist ever.
This girl—have so many things common with me.
It's weird though.