Hannah pierced the older student with her gaze as he shoved her into the room. He stepped in after her, closing the door with a decisive click of the lock. She sank onto a chair, her elbows resting heavily on her knees, while he remained standing, lifting his face slightly, studying her with a peculiar curiosity that flickered in his eyes.
"What did you see out there?" he asked directly, his voice calm but edged with suspicion as he observed her hunched posture.
The girl stood in the middle of the room, staring at him sidelong. Her pallid face gave her a ghastly look, yet he seemed entirely unmoved.
"How do you know I saw something?" she murmured, her voice trembling. But then, as if releasing a burden, she exhaled deeply and sank onto the bed.
"A silly question," he answered dryly.
The seventeen-year-old rubbed her hands against her knees, her eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.
"Stupid is what you are doing," she muttered at last. "A moment ago you hated me, and now you're helping me again. What are your real intentions?" She raised her head and studied him warily, suspicion sharpening her features.
"I feel sorry for you," he said coldly, "because you are exactly like her."
"Like who?" she interjected hastily, a nervous smile twisting her lips.
"My mother. She was also mentally ill."
Her blood ran cold. Hannah's face blanched as if drained of color in an instant.
Joseph's stare bored into her, merciless and steady. He no longer intended to hide the truth—there was no point. Whether she knew it or not, her illness would bloom in time. He had witnessed it before, too young to understand yet old enough to remember. To keep such a dangerous truth hidden was not only cruel but potentially fatal. If the girl remained blind, she might one day hurt herself without even realizing it. She needed help—urgent help from a psychiatrist.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he observed the fear etched into her expression.
"You're lying," she shot back sharply, her eyes narrowed with hostility.
"You're the one lying to yourself," he retorted. "You're sick, Hannah, and all those foolish visions are nothing but images you create in your own head."
Her lips quivered, clamped tight as though she were fighting with every ounce of willpower not to cry.
"Everything you told me—your dead sister, the thing pretending to be her—it's all nonsense." He tapped his temple with a finger, his gaze locked on her. "It's all being created here. In your head."
"You're lying!" she screamed, her lower lip trembling with rage.
"Do you really think you can see ghosts? Talk to them? You're not special. You're abnormal."
Her fingers dug into the bedclothes, clutching them in white-knuckled fists. Her breathing grew ragged, sharp, as though each breath might splinter her from within. Joseph recognized the signs immediately—he had seen them before, hidden behind a door cracked open just enough for a frightened child to watch. His mother. His father. The same storm, about to break again.
"You're lying to me on purpose," she shrieked. "You want to destroy me! You want me to suffer! You've hated me from the very start, and now you're trying to drag me down at all costs!"
Her scream ricocheted off the walls, vibrating in the air. It was exactly what he wanted. She needed to purge the venom, to release her fury, before she could confront the truth.
"I'm mental?" she cried, her voice cracking. "What about your mistress? What about you? You clung to me from the very beginning, though I never did anything to you!"
Joseph leaned back in his chair, pressing his palm to his forehead, patient as a stone.
"Anger—fine. But mind your words."
"Mind my words? Oh no. Enough! No one will tell me I'm insane!"
"I'm not telling you anything," he replied flatly. "I'm making you face the truth. Things are getting worse for you, Hannah. It's time to seek treatment."
"I won't go anywhere. You won't make me crazy, you bastard!" Tears streaked down her cheeks. In blind fury, she snatched up a pillow and hurled it straight at his face. Joseph pressed his lips into a hard line, restraining himself from retaliating.
"Jin knows about your illness too," he said evenly. "Behind your back he has been speaking with him aunt—the psychiatrist. That woman wants to help you. She's arranging an appointment that doesn't need your mother's consent. She's risking herself for you."
The words struck like knives. Betrayal spread like ice through Hannah's chest. Jin too? The only one she trusted—calling her crazy. Why couldn't anyone believe her? Why couldn't they see that the ghosts were real?
"Screw you. Both of you." Her voice dropped suddenly to a whisper, drained and cold. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, her gaze sharp as a blade. "I don't need your help. I can handle myself. Get out. Now."
"I won't leave until you accept that you're sick."
Her scream tore from her throat, shrill and feral. She leapt onto the bed, thrashing wildly, flinging anything within reach. In that moment, she looked exactly like the thing he feared—a mirror of his mother, lost to madness.
He watched calmly, arms crossed, one foot braced on his knee, as she tore books and trinkets from the shelves, hurling them to the floor. Her fury consumed her. She no longer cared what she destroyed—only that she could show the world her rage. At last, her strength ebbed, and she collapsed to the floor in sobs.
Good. The storm had passed.
"Will you talk to me like a human now?" he asked, his tone almost weary. "I have no intention of staying here all night."
She lifted her tear-streaked face, her eyes swollen and red.
"Do you really think I'm sick? That I need help?" she whispered, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.
"You believed Jin, didn't you?" His voice sharpened with indignation. "You can believe him, but not me?" He shook his head. "Even if we're wrong, for your safety, take his help. See his aunt. No one else needs to know. I may not like you, but I won't spread rumors. Perhaps… because I've seen it before. My mother."
"Earlier, you said she died. Was it because of her illness?"
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. He turned his head aside, then finally nodded.
"Years of suffering," he murmured, his voice breaking. "My father never locked her away. Instead, he kept her in a room where everything was secured, so she wouldn't hurt herself. The psychiatrist came, but by then it was too late. She found her own way… and ended it."
Hannah caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes, quickly banished with furious blinks.
"You open up to me again…" she whispered softly.
He shot to his feet, his body tense with resistance, and strode toward the door. His hand closed around the handle, but he paused.
"I'm not opening up," he said coldly, his back to her. "I'm warning you. Get treatment. Leave this place before it's too late. I've seen what this disease does—it changes people until they're unrecognizable. And then, there is no way back."
He wrenched the door open and left, the sound of it closing echoing through the silence.
Hannah's gaze shifted slowly to the corner. There she was—the girl.
"Don't trust him," the apparition whispered, stepping forward, her smile venomous. "He wants to destroy you. He makes you sick. He laughs at you. But you… you're perfectly healthy. How long will you endure his cruelty?"
Hannah's lips parted in hesitation. "It seems… this time he was sincere. Maybe he really wants to help me." Her voice trembled, uncertain. "Maybe you're not even real?"
The figure burst into peals of laughter, sharp and terrible.
"So I should prove I'm not an illusion?"
Before Hannah could react, the entity smashed a photo frame, shards glittering as they scattered across the floor. It picked up a jagged piece of glass and crouched beside her. With a chilling tenderness, it took her hand and drew the edge across her skin. A thin line of crimson bloomed instantly, blood dripping onto the floor.
Hannah stared at it in silence, frozen, her heart thundering in her chest.
*
It was late in the evening. Joseph lay sprawled across his bed, staring at the ceiling in weary boredom. The room felt strangely hollow, emptied of the usual noise and chatter. He guessed that Jimmy had once again slipped out to see his girlfriend in secret, desperate to make amends for the months of cruelty he had inflicted on her. Jin was almost certainly buried in the library, his nose pressed into some book, and Tom had likely gone with him out of sheer restlessness, unwilling to sit alone.
Joseph rubbed his face with both hands, dragging his palms slowly down until they covered his mouth. Inevitably, his thoughts drifted toward Hannah. A sour weight settled in his chest at the memory of the way he had treated her. Occasionally, he despised himself for the cruelty, a faint sting of guilt gnawing at the edges of his conscience. The girl had real troubles—anyone could see it—and yet he had chosen to worsen them. But then, just as quickly, remorse gave way to cold justification. She deserved to suffer, he told himself. Hannah was the one who had killed his mother. It was her fault, and Danielle's fault. Both of them had stolen from him the only person he had longed for.
From beneath his pillow, he drew out a neatly folded white handkerchief. It was identical to the one a younger student carried, a fragile connection between past and present. His mother had embroidered it herself when she was young.
He smiled faintly, running his finger over the uneven threads, the clumsy mistakes stitched into the fabric.
"I miss you, Mom," he whispered into the quiet room. His voice trembled. "Even though I don't remember too many happy moments with you, I can't stop grieving your death. I would give anything just to see you again, even for a moment."
A tear fell, staining the white cloth. As it darkened the embroidery, the memory of the day he first uncovered the family's dark secret returned to him with merciless clarity.
Four years earlier.
At fifteen, Joseph sat slumped at the kitchen table, his chin resting heavily on his hands. His eyes followed the housekeeper as she moved about the warm, dimly lit kitchen, preparing his dinner with her usual quiet efficiency. He loved being here at this hour, when the rest of the house seemed to fade away. She had been more of a mother to him than anyone else in recent years. With her, he could speak freely—something impossible with his father, who was always too busy, always absent, always cold.
He sighed, the sound heavy with frustration.
"You've been walking around looking sad for days now," the woman remarked gently, pausing to stand in front of him. Her eyes were full of concern, the kind that cut straight through his defenses. "What's going on, Joseph?"
"I don't know how much harder I can try," he muttered. "No matter what I do, Father never has time for me. He always says he's too busy. I just want… I want to finally sit with him and talk about Mother. Lately, I've been having nightmares every night. And I know they're not just dreams—they're memories. Memories from when I was little."
The housekeeper placed a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly.
"I think your father avoids the subject because it is still too painful for him. Give him time. One day, he'll tell you himself."
"But I'm not a child anymore!" Joseph snapped, his voice breaking with desperation. "I'm old enough to know the truth. This is about my mother. I want to know what really happened to her—what drove her to that state. Keeping it hidden from me is making things worse. If someone would just tell me the truth, maybe these nightmares would finally stop haunting me."
His lip trembled as he bit down hard, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. His gaze fixed on her, pleading silently for mercy.
"Joseph, you know I trust you," she said, her own voice unsteady. "I've always treated you like a son. I would do anything for you."
"Then help me," he begged. "Tell me everything. Even if it's painful, I need to know what happened to her."
The woman's eyes darted anxiously around the kitchen, as though she feared the walls themselves might be listening. At last, she leaned closer, her expression grave, and clasped his hand.
"Promise me," she whispered, "that what I'm about to say will stay between us. Your father cannot know. If he finds out, he will destroy me. I love working here, Joseph. I couldn't bear to be forced away from you."
"You have my word," he said solemnly. "You're the only person in this house I can speak honestly with. I would never betray you."
Her grip on his hand tightened. Her next words came out in a hushed breath.
"Your mother had an affair with another man."
Joseph froze. His chest constricted as if the air had been sucked from the room. He swallowed hard, unable to speak, waiting for her to continue.
"She became pregnant. That was how your father discovered her betrayal. Do you understand why? Because…" The woman's voice faltered before she forced the words out. "Because your father is infertile."
The revelation struck him like a physical blow, but he forced his face to remain still, his features unreadable. He would not let her stop. He needed every detail.
"Miss Wesley," he said slowly, his voice unnervingly calm, "you are very direct. I like that."
Her eyes widened, startled by his response.
"I shouldn't have told you this," she whispered. "It's too much. I've hurt you." She began to turn away, but Joseph caught her hand firmly.
"This is what I suspected already. My father told me three years ago that I was adopted. Don't worry—you haven't broken me."
Relief softened her features, and she pressed a hand against her chest.
"Thank God… I've carried this burden for so long."
Joseph offered a faint smile.
"When I start talking, my tongue runs away with me," she added nervously.
He leaned in, his eyes sharp. "Do you know who the man was? The one she was pregnant with?"
The woman shook her head. "No. I only know what happened after. Your father was furious. To ensure she never saw him again, he locked her in a room. He decided she would remain there until the birth. No one could know she had been unfaithful. Such a scandal would have destroyed his reputation."
Joseph's eyes widened, horror and disbelief warring within him.
"Your mother began to wither in that confinement," the woman went on, her voice heavy with sorrow. "It was the beginning of her madness. When the day came, she gave birth at home. The delivery was hushed, covered up with money and silence. Your father made the decision immediately. The twins—because yes, there were two—were sent to an orphanage within days."
"The twins?" Joseph whispered. The word struck him like a forgotten echo. He remembered faint fragments, whispers of when he was four years old and his mother insisted he was not alone in the house, that there were other children, girls.
"Yes," she confirmed softly. "You were too young then—only two years old—but I saw something I never forgot. Even as a child, you understood. Your father had left the carrier with the babies by the door, just for a moment. You toddled up to them with the little handkerchief your mother had given you. You placed it gently on their quilt. Then you ran off, and I hid it deeper so your father wouldn't throw it away."
Joseph lowered his gaze, shame mingling with anger. "I was only two. I didn't know what I was doing."
"You were a kind child," she said softly. "Even then, you showed compassion."
"What compassion?" His voice grew sharp. "Those brats destroyed my family. They were the children of her betrayal. And now I understand. Mother lost her mind longing for them. I used to hear her at night, crying, whispering to herself that they were still with her. It was them. They killed her."
His chair scraped against the floor as he rose abruptly. He strode toward the door, then turned his head slightly, his eyes shadowed.
"What we spoke about today… it stays between us. Forever. It is our secret."