ALVA
I can't shake off the agent's words.
They've burrowed under my skin like splinters, refusing to let me rest. Even now, hours later, his voice still loops in my head, low and insistent, gnawing at every rational part of me that knows better. "There are always traces left behind. Even when a mother turns her back on a child, some part of her lingers. Maybe regret. Maybe love."
I scoff when I recall it but the sound is hollow. No matter how many times I try to laugh it off, my chest won't unclench. My mind keeps circling back to the same question.
What if Camille left me something?
It's absurd, isn't it? The same woman who could barely stand to hear my name, who shattered in fits of paranoia whenever I entered her thoughts—what would she leave me? A token of guilt? A cruel reminder? Nothing at all?
But the thought won't leave. It claws at me, scratching against the walls of my skull.
