The Belmont Center for Juvenile Recovery was nothing like what Adrian had envisioned in his mind's eye. Instead of finding a decrepit facility surrounded by harsh steel bars and ominous strands of barbed wire, he was greeted by a surprisingly polished environment. The building exuded a sense of modernity and cleanliness, engineered to promote an atmosphere of healing and recovery. The bright white walls, adorned with vibrant potted plants, contributed to a serene ambiance, while soft, calming music floated through the speakers embedded in the ceiling. At the front desk, a receptionist flashed a smile that seemed almost too cheerful for the circumstances.
Standing beside him, Lena's posture was tense; her arms were tightly crossed, and her expression was inscrutable, revealing nothing of her thoughts.
"This place reeks of bleach and denial," she muttered quietly, her voice barely audible but laced with discontent.
Adrian remained silent, feeling the weight of dread settling in his stomach like a stone. They signed in using aliases, common practice for consultants reviewing sensitive historical documents and were escorted by a stoic security guard to a records room located on the second floor. The hallway they traversed was unusually silent, the stillness punctuated only by the sound of their footsteps, which reverberated ominously around them like a foreboding echo.
Behind a desk piled high with dusty, neglected files sat a woman in her sixties, her demeanor reflecting a mix of authority and exhaustion.
"Dr. Keller?" she inquired, squinting at Adrian as if trying to see beyond his facade.
He offered a nod in acknowledgment.
"Ms. Ward?" she directed her gaze toward Lena.
"Technically," Lena replied curtly, her tone icy and unyielding.
The woman adjusted her glasses with a slight sigh. Her nameplate identified her as Dr. Lois Carver, the Administrator Emeritus of the facility.
"You're here to access records pertaining to Subject B7," she stated flatly. "However, those files are sealed under the Juvenile Ethics Act of 2005, and you will need special permission to review them."
With determination, Adrian leaned in closer to the desk. "We have clearance granted by the Federal Missing Persons Continuance Order. You should find the necessary documentation in your inbox right now."
Carver's expression shifted to one of mild irritation as she began to type deliberately, fingers tapping against the keyboard. After a brief pause, her posture stiffened, indicating she had located the information she sought.
"I see it," she said, albeit reluctantly.
"And what's your conclusion?" he pressed, eager to find out if they would be granted access.
"I will allow you one hour to examine the files, but only under my supervision. There are strict protocols: you cannot take photographs or physically remove any documents. You are permitted to take handwritten notes, however," she explained, her tone leaving little room for negotiation.
Lena leaned in, her curiosity piqued. "What exactly are you trying to safeguard, Dr. Carver?"
Without betraying any sign of discomfort, Carver replied, "Institutional privacy, and what remains of a very damaged boy."
With that, they were led to a secure locked cabinet where Carver retrieved a single folder. It was unremarkable at first glance, marked simply with a cryptic code: B7 - E.S.
Choosing a spot at the table nearest the window, Adrian settled into a chair. The natural light filtered in through the glass, illuminating the room but doing little to alleviate the tension that coiled deeply within him.
Lena opened the file, her heart racing in anticipation. The first page revealed a photograph.
Elijah.
A bit older than he appeared in the previous photograph—perhaps around the age of eleven now. Those same observant eyes, ever vigilant. However, it was evident that his expression had shifted over time. Though the sadness still lingered in his gaze, something new had taken root in his demeanor. Resentment.
Beneath the image, a collection of incident reports, behavioral assessments, and medical notes awaited examination:
"Subject exhibits increasing difficulty in adhering to empathy-retraining protocols."
"When not engaged, recites a coded language comprehensible only to a prior peer (designated A4)."
"Displays an unusual pain threshold. Reportedly experiences discomfort from others during observation sessions."
"Memo suggested a memory dampening procedure to alleviate trauma reenactment occurrences."
Adrian flipped the page over, desperate for further details.
On this new page, a psychiatric note was hastily written in bright red ink:
"Subject exhibits signs of misplaced loyalty towards 'Keller.' When asked about the concept of betrayal, he shows signs of physical distress. It may be that he believes the abandonment he faced was a deliberate act."
Adrian felt a knot form in his chest, tightening with the weight of those words.
Lena glanced over the notes at Adrian's side. "They transformed him into a patient, all to quiet him."
"They didn't manage to silence him," Adrian whispered back, his voice steady and tinged with intensity. "They only honed his edge."
Dr. Carver lingered by the door, her arms crossed in an almost defensive posture. With an unexpected burst of curiosity, Adrian turned to her.
"Do you remember him?" he inquired, a sense of urgency in his tone.
Carver hesitated, a flicker of recognition passing over her features. "I was the supervisor in charge of his intake process."
"What was he like?" Adrian pressed, eager to gather more fragments of Elijah's story.
For what seemed like the first time, Carver's usually composed expression wavered slightly. "He was quiet—almost unnaturally so. Most children at his age were rambunctious, unpredictable, wild after their experiences in state care. Elijah, however, was… different. He was still, but there was an intensity to him, as if he were watching and absorbing everything around him."
Adrian spoke in a raw, almost broken voice. "Did he ever ask about me?"
There was a pause as Carver weighed her words carefully. Then, she nodded once, affirmatively. "Yes. Every week for six months. Specifically by name."
Lena interjected at that moment. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him you weren't coming back. That's what we were led to believe."
Adrian's fists tightened into balls of fury.
"And did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, you were deceived as well?" he questioned, his voice rising slightly as the desperation grew within him.
Carver's gaze fell away from his intense stare.
When their allotted hour finally drew to a close, Adrian emerged from the confines of Belmont with a weight upon his shoulders far heavier than when he entered.
The journey back home unfolded in a profound silence that enveloped the car, a thick, heavy atmosphere saturated with all the thoughts and emotions that neither of them dared to voice. It was as if an invisible barrier had settled between them, keeping their true feelings just out of reach.
After what felt like ages, Lena mustered the courage to pierce the quietude that surrounded them. "What's weighing on your mind?" she asked, her voice soft but earnest, breaking the tension that had filled the space.
Adrian sighed, and in a voice that barely broke through the silence, he confessed, "The fact that they've stripped him of everything he once had. All of it—the memories that defined him, his voice that told his story, and even the trust that once anchored him in this world—they've taken it all away."
Lena turned her gaze towards the window, her eyes scanning the blurred scenery beyond the glass, as if seeking some semblance of clarity amid the confusion that enveloped them. "But you have to remember, they haven't managed to erase his message. It still resonates," she reminded him, her tone resolute.
Adrian nodded in agreement, a flicker of determination beginning to warm his heart as he absorbed the meaning behind her words.
"He continues to speak, even in silence," he affirmed, fully aware of the profound responsibility they shared in amplifying that voice, recognizing the heaviness that accompanied such a declaration.
Once they arrived back at the morgue, Adrian moved swiftly, driven by a sense of purpose toward the stainless steel drawer tagged with the number 3021-B, designating the young girl classified as Jane Doe.
With a decisive pull, he opened the drawer and found himself gazing down into its depths. Time seemed to stretch, and for what felt like an eternity, he was entranced by the sight before him.
There she was, a child—just a young girl whose light had been cruelly snuffed out while she existed within a system that was supposed to offer her safety and protection.
Yet, that very system, the one built to shield her from harm, had ultimately failed her in the most tragic way possible, leaving a haunting echo of what could have been.
A system that had let him down, just like so many other times before.
In that fleeting moment of emotional openness, he found himself leaning in closer, the warmth of her presence drawing him near. With a quiet intensity, he leaned in and whispered, his voice barely above a murmur, unsure of why he felt this sudden urge to confide in her. "I'm listening now," he said, the words hanging in the air between them, filled with unspoken understanding.
As he started to slide the drawer shut, something odd caught his eye, pulling his focus away from his thoughts and back into the moment.
There, nestled under her shoulder, was a fragile piece of wax paper, folded with meticulous care, as if it had been placed there with the utmost intention.
He realized, in that instant, that he had somehow failed to notice it until now.
A wave of unease washed over him, sending his heart racing as a cascade of apprehension filled his chest.
With fingers that quivered slightly, he reached out and began to unfold the note, taking great care not to tear the delicate paper.
What he revealed was yet another message. A phrase that was deceptively simple, yet carried a weight of significance that struck him deeply.
"Do you remember what you did, Keller?"