"Mr. MacRae, there's someone who wants to see you."
The nurse's voice floated softly through the quiet ward.
The old man in the wheelchair didn't move at first. He just sat there — facing the window, where pale Edinburgh light poured through the thin curtains, dust swirling like faded memories in the air.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving streaks on the glass that caught the morning sun. The man's fingers, thin and trembling, tapped lightly against the armrest — a rhythm that once had meaning, now lost somewhere in the fog of his mind.
He turned his head slowly. His eyes were pale blue, still sharp in the way old steel could be sharp, but hollowed by years and confusion. "Someone… for me?" he murmured, the words dragging out, as though each syllable had to be found and remembered before spoken.
"Yes, sir," the nurse said kindly, adjusting the blanket over his knees. "A fan. She said she knew you from before."
His lips moved again, barely a whisper. "Before… they all left."
A faint smile ghosted across his face, though it wasn't clear if it was memory or madness. "Tell me, lass… is it spring already?"
A girl stepped inside — young, neat, almost out of place in the antiseptic calm of the ward. Her brown wig hair was tied loosely, a few strands slipping down over her cheeks; her uniform looked a bit too clean, her satchel too heavy with "student notes."
Anna.
She smiled politely, the kind of small, hesitant smile that could melt any nurse's suspicion.
"Good morning, Mr. MacRae," she said gently, voice carrying that soft, polite cadence of someone raised to sound harmless. "I'm Anna. I'm doing a small interview project for my school — about the history of local food judges in Scotland."
The nurse brightened immediately. "Isn't that nice? Mr. MacRae was quite famous, you know."
The old man turned his head, slowly. His eyes studied the girl — the posture, the nervous hands clutching a notebook that didn't quite look like a school one. For a moment, confusion drifted through his face like mist. Then, something else — the faintest flicker of familiarity — passed through his pupils before vanishing again.
"Food judge?" he echoed. His voice cracked like brittle paper. "Aye… aye, I suppose I was."
Anna nodded, keeping her expression steady, almost cheerful. "They said you worked with a lot of restaurants back then — some of them still open, right?"
He just humming.
"They say you were a critic who never repeated a meal," she said lightly, tapping her pen against the margin. "You used to travel… write about chefs, owners, all those places that made Edinburgh taste a little less gray."
The old man hummed faintly, a low sound that drifted somewhere between thought and memory. His eyes unfocused, watching the rain slide down the windowpane.
"I did travel," he murmured. "They sent me everywhere… said I had a nose for truth." He chuckled, the sound brittle. "A curse, more than a gift."
Anna tilted her head, her hearing aid catching every crackle of his voice. "You must've met a lot of people," she said softly. "Some… good, some not so much, maybe?"
He silenced.
"Also, your family not visiting you?"
"My family?" he murmured, the words rolling around his tongue as if they were foreign. "Aye… they used to. Long ago, I think."
I smiled.
"…"
"…"
"Tell me about them."
The old man's eyes flickered — a brief, puzzled light behind the fog. Anna leaned back slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before adjusting her hearing aids, a soft metallic click breaking the silence.
The faint hum of the machine in the corner filled the room, and outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
"My family?" he asked again, voice distant but curious this time, as if she'd tugged at a half-buried thread.
Anna nodded slowly. "Yes. Your daughter. Your wife. Maybe even the ones you used to work with."
He hesitated, then smiled faintly, eyes unfocused. "My wife, she loved the smell of fresh bread. Used to fill the kitchen every morning… even when she could barely stand. My daughter—" he paused, frowning. "She had this way of listening… even when she wasn't. Always pretending she didn't hear me."
Anna's breath hitched, just a little. "Pretending?"
He nodded. "Aye. Like she thought it'd protect her somehow."
Anna looked down, pretending to jot notes. The corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite grief.
"I think," she said softly, "maybe she just wanted to make sure she didn't cry while listening."
The man blinked, a small tremor crossing his face. "You talk like you know her."
Anna met his eyes, her own steady, calm. "Maybe I just understand the type."
The old man shifted slightly in his wheelchair, his thin hands gripping the armrests as if to steady the drifting fragments of memory.
Anna smiled gently, tapping her pen against the notepad in her lap. "You worked in food judging, right? I heard you were the best — traveled all over, tasted everything from truffle to herring?"
He blinked, his gaze wandering toward the window. "Food… yes, food." A faint chuckle escaped his lips. "You know, I once judged a pâté contest in Lyon. Terrible thing — too much salt. But the host insisted it was perfect. Everyone clapped anyway."
Anna leaned forward, playing along. "Did you tell them?"
"Of course I did. Told the man his goose liver could've killed a priest." He laughed weakly, but the sound trailed off, replaced by a foggy stare. "Lyon…" He frowned, his voice lowering. "Or was it Bordeaux? My wife used to remind me of these things…"
Anna watched him closely, her heart tightening. "It's alright," she said softly. "Sometimes memories like to hide for a bit."
He smiled faintly, eyes flickering. "You talk kindly, miss. My daughter used to… She would've liked you. She was… studying somewhere cold… maybe…"
Anna swallowed hard, adjusting her hearing aids again, the faint static grounding her. "Scotland?" she asked carefully.
"Nah, my brother saying she studied somewhere…."
He blinked again. "Ah—aye… uh…I have no clues. That's it. Always said she'd come back for me." He let out a low, broken laugh. "Still waiting, you know."
"I was. Still am. She was supposed to take over the academy… write about the world, food, life. All that."
Anna looked down, her fingers tightening around the pen until her knuckles paled. "Did she?"
He tilted his head, squinting. "Did who?"
"…Your daughter."
The silence that followed was deep, almost tender. He blinked again, confusion washing across his face. "My daughter? She's… she's late for dinner, isn't she?"
Anna bit her lip, a soft breath trembling through her chest. "Yes," she said finally. "She's just a little late."
He smiled, eyes drifting back to the rain-streaked window. "Always running. Just like her mother."
Anna closed her notepad slowly. "That's a family trait," she murmured, her voice almost lost in the hum of the fluorescent lights.
The old man squinted suddenly, as if a fragment of memory cut through the fog in his head.
"De Maria," he murmured. "That place… aye, I remember that one. They called it a 'super-food' restaurant, didn't they? All greens, oils, and little bits of fish pretending to be meals."
Anna tilted her head, adjusting her hearing aids, keeping her voice light. "De Maria… you said? De Monttana Maria, I think? Sounds familiar. Did you judge there often?"
"I did." His tone shifted—half-pride, half-resentment. "The food was good, too good for its own good. The chef—no, not the chef—the owner… that man."
"Who?"
"…"
"…"
"…"
"Leone"
The old man squinted, the fog in his mind clearing in patches. "Aye… a few times, yes. Fancy place. Too fancy sometimes. The food—super-food, they called it. Strange things on a plate. The chef… or maybe the owner… tall, quiet lad. Eyes sharp enough to cut glass."
Anna scribbled in her notebook, careful not to push too hard. "The owner… did he impress you? I mean, in terms of the cuisine, or… his way of running things?"
He tapped his wheelchair arm, muttering like he was sorting through old memories. "Hmm… impressed? Maybe. That one… he just run a restaurant perfectly. Charm. People fell for him, all smiles and courtesy. But he—he had a mind behind it all, i thought so."
Anna nodded slowly, hiding the quick thrum in her chest. "Sounds… impressive. Did you… see him often after that?"
He chuckled, a dry rasp. "Once or twice. He liked to talk about his obsession with wine, about taste, food, even whispered about 'the Unit', nonsense or something. Couldn't make sense of it at the time. Ah, but the lad had fire. Don't forget that."
Anna's gaze flicked to his wrinkled hands and then back to the notebook. She smiled lightly, pretending casual interest. "Thank you, really. That helps a lot."
The old man hummed, already half-lost in his memories again, leaving her to wonder—quietly, carefully—who the fuck is Leon, and why his name had ended up with his family in her mother's last reports.
Anna glanced up from her notebook, about to ask another careful question, when the old man's hand suddenly twitched. His gaze, which moments ago had been soft and cloudy, sharpened — wild. His breath hitched.
"He's coming."
The words were barely a whisper at first. Then, louder — shaking.
"He's coming!!"
The teacup rattled against the saucer. He tried to stand but his knees gave out, the wheelchair jolting. "Don't you hear it? Footsteps—always the same, always behind me! He said I'd never talk!"
Anna froze for a second, her pulse skipping. "Sir—please, it's okay, no one's here—"
"No! No, you don't understand!" His fingers clawed at his hospital blanket, eyes wide and unfocused. "They watch—the man, the man in suits, they said the birds always mock before they strike
The nurse rushed in, her voice firm but soft, "Mr. MacRae, please—please, calm down, it's okay."
Anna stepped back, her throat dry, watching the old man thrash and mumble incoherently.
Anna's hand trembled slightly as she reached to adjust her hearing aids — more out of reflex than need — as the nurse injected a mild sedative. The old man's voice weakened, fading into broken murmurs.
"…Tell her… run…"
And then silence.
Anna stood there, staring at him — an old man lost in his fractured mind, or perhaps remembering something too clearly. The rain outside pressed harder against the window, soft and relentless.
She tucked her notebook into her coat and turned toward the door.
Her heart was pounding, not from pity — but from a cold, familiar dread.
He's coming.
And for the first time in years, Anna wasn't sure if the old man was delusional… or simply the only one ho lost his memories but telling the truth.
—§—
The apartment smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh paint, a curious mixture that reminded Anna of hospitals and new beginnings. Boxes were scattered across the living room, filled with medical supplies, pills, and the small devices Maya insisted Mona would need. Tubes, monitors, pill organizers — the space looked more like a makeshift clinic than a home.
Maya was crouched near the corner, carefully arranging medicine in neat rows, her brow furrowed in concentration. Mona sat on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, her small fingers fumbling with a tablet. Despite the quiet hum of machines, there was an unusual energy — tentative, fragile, but hopeful.
Lucas was climbing a small ladder, adjusting the overhead light so it wouldn't shine too harshly on Mona's bed. "Almost done," he muttered, his hands deft, steady — the kind of presence that made the room feel safer.
Anna leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the faint shadow of exhaustion under her eyes. "You call that perfect? It's just a light," she said flatly.
Lucas gave her a sidelong grin. "Ah, but this is science, my dear Miss Löwendeld. Light angles, luminosity, ambiance — all crucial for survival of the human psyche. Especially for someone like Mona, she need a good bulb..for her light."
Anna raised a brow, unimpressed. "You really do have too much free time."
"I do not," he protested, mock-offended. "I have responsibilities. Heroic responsibilities. And clearly, I am the only one keeping this apartment from being a death trap of shadows and dramatic lighting."
She sighed, letting her shoulders slump. "You sound like one of those overdramatic movie narrators."
Lucas chuckled. "Maybe I am. But admit it — you're secretly entertained."
Anna's expression stayed cold, eyes drifting toward the window where the Edinburgh rain streaked down the glass. "I'm not entertained. I'm tired."
Lucas leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Tired, yes. But secretly judging my impeccable taste in lighting. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."
She glanced at him, her tone clipped. "I don't judge. I observe."
"Ah, same difference," he said with a grin, waving a hand dismissively. "Observation is just judgment with style."
Anna shook her head, letting a faint exhale escape her lips. Her eyes softened ever so slightly when she glanced at Maya fussing over Mona with meticulous care. Lucas caught the glance. "See? You do care," he said, his grin widening.
"I care enough to survive," she replied, turning away, masking the flicker of warmth that threatened to show.
Lucas gave a mock salute. "Noted, Commander Cold-Afternoon. Your loyalty to survival will be recorded for posterity. Or at least, until Mona throws up on the carpet."
She shot him a glare to shut his mouth completely.
Anna finally let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh, tired but faintly amused. "You're ridiculous."
Anna sank onto the edge of the couch, her eyes fixed on the rain streaking the window. Mona sprawled on the floor, fiddling with a puzzle she couldn't quite finish, while Maya perched on the armrest, just finished arranging Mona pills.
"You really dropped school for this?" Anna asked, her voice calm and measured, more observation than accusation.
Maya shrugged, leaning back with a grin. "Why wouldn't I? Mona needs me more than my GPA does. Besides…" she tilted her head, eyes glinting with mischief, "you'll help me, right?"
"Helping what?"
"Finding our mother.."
For a moment, Anna said nothing, her mind flicking back to years spent alone — Moscow winters, endless drills, the death of her mother, the chaos of a childhood where responsibility meant survival, no one guided or someone else. She had never had a family to handle, never had anyone depend on her beyond herself. And now, this little girl expected her to step in.
"I accepted with Mona, not with you," Anna said, her tone sharp, eyes fixed on Maya as if daring her to argue. "Only the trip to Edinburgh. That doesn't mean you can ruin your whole life while you're at it."
Maya blinked, feigning innocence. "Ruin my life? I'm just… trying to give more options to my sister. Living a little."
Anna's jaw tightened. "You know what is pathetic?"
Anna's eyes narrowed, voice low but cutting. "Giving someone else a chance but never sparing yourself a path to go… don't try to play the hero here, little brat."
Maya let out a soft laugh, teasing, "Ah, so that's your way of saying I'm too reckless for my own good?"
Anna's lips pressed into a thin line. "Reckless isn't the word. Selfish is. And don't forget—you've got a responsibility here, not just to her… but to yourself. Don't waste it."
"Oh, come on," Maya whined, flopping onto the worn couch, the faint scent of jet fuel still clinging to her. "I just slept on the most beautiful aircraft to get here, and now you're acting like I'm being sent back home!"
Anna's jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The calm, controlled mask she wore so easily snapped, leaving something raw and human beneath. "Know what, Maya? Making Mona's life brighter doesn't mean you have to ruin your own for the sake of a short-term life! She's dying from—" Anna's voice caught for a moment, thick with anger and grief, "—blood cancer, and you think throwing your future away is… is what should happen?!"
I pointed at her. "Is it worth? Is it make Mona live more long lasting?"
Anna's hands dropped to her sides, trembling slightly. She didn't want to admit it, but the truth pressed hard against her chest: she cared. More than she had thought she could, more than she wanted to admit. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself feel it—protective, worried, and fiercely human.
She do care.
What?
She really do care.
But it just need to be bloom again.
Maya laughed softly, a little bitter, a little humbled. "Damn… you're terrifying when you care."
Anna let out a breath, her shoulders loosening slightly. "Good. Maybe that'll finally sink in."
She leaned back in her chair, tired but resolute. "I don't have a lot of patience for idiots who think heroism is tossing themselves in front of tragedy. You, little brat, are learning that now."
Maya's impatience, her half-bitten fingernail, the way she talked back even when afraid — it was all her, years ago. The version of Anna who hadn't yet learned to wear silence like armor, who still thought pain could be reasoned with.
Anna's fingers twitched on the coffee mug, aligning it with the table edge until it was perfectly straight. Her chest felt tight, as if her own heart were protesting the recognition. She hated this kind of mirroring — hated the way it tore open old wounds she had sutured with control and distance.
Then came a soft cough.
Mona.
She stood by the hallway, wrapped in an oversized sweater that made her look even smaller, her oxygen tube gleaming faintly in the dim light. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Are you two fighting again?"
Anna froze, then setting the smug down with a quiet sigh.
"Just… discussing," she said carefully.
Mona's lips curved faintly. "You mean arguing."
Her small steps carried her closer, the floor creaking under her weight. "You both sound like Mom and Dad used to — but nicer."
Mona just standing there quietly, until she start softly.
"My sister is very stubborn," her eyes softened, "working until night, study until day, draining herself to the edge
"Go to bed, it's none of your business," Anna said flatly, her tone sharp enough to slice through the air.
Mona didn't move. She just stood there in her soft socks, the hospital wristband still faintly visible under her sleeve, staring at Anna like she could see straight through her armor.
After a long silence, the little girl spoke again — voice small, but clear.
"My sister is very stubborn," she said softly. "Working until night… studying until day… draining herself to the edge."
Her eyes lifted to Anna's, and for a moment, there was no fear there — just quiet understanding.
"She doesn't know when to stop, you know?" Mona continued, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "Mom used to say people like her are made of steel outside, but paper inside."
Anna's jaw tightened. She looked away, pretending to check something on her tablet.
"That's poetic," she muttered.
Mona tilted her head. "That's sad."
Anna exhaled, slow and uneven. The little girl's words clung to her chest like smoke she couldn't cough out.
"…You should rest," she finally said, but the edge in her tone had softened — the command had become almost… a plea.
Mona nodded obediently, turning to leave. But before disappearing into the hallway, she stopped and whispered without looking back:
"You look like her sometimes. When you talk like that."
Anna froze. The room felt suddenly smaller, her pulse too loud against the quiet.
By the time she turned around, Mona was gone — and all that lingered was the faint hum of the heater and a child's voice echoing in her head.
Looking outside the rainy sky, everything seems so dark.