The envelope burned a hole in her coat pocket all morning.
Emma sat at her desk in the school counseling office, pretending to read a file she'd already glanced at three times. Outside the small frosted window, children ran across the playground, shrieking with joy. She didn't hear them. Her mind was still in the attic. Still holding that letter. Still reading the words that didn't belong to her—but somehow felt like they did.
To Evelyn.
But Evelyn didn't exist.
Or… did she?
Her heart kicked painfully in her chest, a low throb behind her ribs.
"Miss Clarke?"
She looked up, startled. One of the Year 10 students—Liam—stood at the door holding a pass.
"You said I could talk to you about my mum?"
She blinked quickly. "Yes, of course. Come in."
She pushed everything down, like she always did.
⸻
It wasn't until nearly 5 p.m., when the school had emptied and her office had gone still, that Emma let herself feel again.
She pulled the letter out from her drawer, unfolded it gently. Her father's handwriting was jagged, like he'd written in a rush, or through shaking hands.
You were always meant for more than silence…
That line haunted her the most. Her father had always been gentle. He told her bedtime stories, never raised his voice. But this—this letter—read like a man begging for forgiveness. From someone he had failed.
From me?
Or from someone else?
She slid the letter back into the envelope and stood abruptly. She needed air. She needed answers.
⸻
She walked through the side streets with no destination, her coat buttoned up to her chin. The wind whipped at her cheeks, cold and punishing. As she passed the iron gate leading to the park, she heard someone call her name.
"Emma!"
She turned and saw Daniel Hayes, jogging toward her.
He looked almost the same as he had in college—soft brown hair, kind eyes, that faint scar above his right brow from when they climbed Mrs. Lockhart's garden wall as kids. He'd always been the safest part of her childhood. The one constant.
But now she looked at him like everyone else: with suspicion.
"You okay?" he asked, falling into step beside her. "You've been ghosting me."
"I've been busy."
"Emma," he said, his tone heavier. "Talk to me."
She stopped walking. They stood near the broken bench beneath the tall sycamore tree—the same tree they used to sit under when they were kids, hiding from the world.
"I found a letter," she said. "From my dad."
Daniel's face paled slightly.
She watched him. "It wasn't addressed to me. It was for someone named Evelyn."
He didn't say anything. His silence confirmed everything.
"I need you to tell me the truth," Emma said. "Who is Evelyn?"
Daniel rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know everything. I just… I know your mum made your dad keep secrets. For years."
"What kind of secrets?"
"I don't know specifics," he said quickly. "Just that there was… something about your birth. About your name."
Emma's voice dropped. "My name?"
Daniel hesitated, then looked at her. "You weren't always Emma Clarke."
A coldness spread through her limbs. "What was I?"
Daniel took a breath. "Your name was Evelyn. Evelyn Grace Morgan."
The world tilted.
She staggered back half a step. "How long have you known this?"
He swallowed. "Since we were sixteen."
"Sixteen?" Her voice cracked. "That was nine years ago, Daniel. And you didn't think I had the right to know?"
"I wanted to tell you. I swear I did. But your mum—she made me promise. She said it would destroy you. That your dad couldn't…"
He trailed off.
Emma's heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear itself open.
"My father didn't lie to me," she whispered. "He loved me."
Daniel looked pained. "He did. But he was trying to keep peace. Between you and your mum. Between the life they built and the truth they buried."
She stepped back. "Don't make this sound noble. He lied. You lied. Everyone around me has been feeding me a story I didn't choose."
"Emma—"
"No," she snapped. "Not Emma. Apparently, I'm Evelyn. Or whoever you all decided I should be."
He reached for her arm, but she flinched away.
"I trusted you," she said, her voice breaking. "And you were just like the rest of them."
She turned and walked away, her legs moving faster than her thoughts.
⸻
By the time she got home, the sky was darkening. She didn't bother turning on the lights. She moved on autopilot—past the hallway photos, up the stairs, to her room.
She pulled open the drawer of her nightstand and took out her birth certificate.
She'd looked at it once before. Years ago.
She flipped it open.
Name: Emma Grace Clarke
Mother: Grace Clarke
Father: Richard Clarke
It had always seemed simple.
But now?
Now she wondered if that certificate was even real.
She needed proof. Real proof.
She went to the attic.
The smell hit her first—dust, mothballs, forgotten time. She found the cedar box again, pulled it down. This time she dug deeper, her fingers frantic. At the bottom, tucked beneath a stack of old receipts and a faded birthday card, she found another envelope.
This one wasn't sealed.
Inside was a different birth certificate.
Name: Evelyn Grace Morgan
Date of Birth: August 17, 1998
Mother: Grace Morgan
Father: ———
The paper trembled in her hands.
Two names. Two identities. One person.
She sat on the attic floor, surrounded by shadows, and wept quietly into the dark.