Emma's heart pounded as she stood in the doorway of Ethan's room, the crumpled letter from Sophie still warm in her memory. The police station, the motorcycle theft, Ethan's bitter words—"You don't even notice me anymore"—clung to her like damp clothes. The house was quiet now, David downstairs on the phone with the lawyer, but the air felt charged, heavy with secrets. She glanced at Ethan, sprawled on his bed, sketching furiously in his notebook, his earbuds blasting music she couldn't hear. The letter had hinted at something serious—Sophie was sick, and Ethan was carrying that weight alone.
She stepped into the room, dodging a pile of clothes, and sat on the edge of his bed. "Ethan," she said, her voice soft but firm. "We need to talk about Sophie."
He froze, his pencil hovering over the page, then yanked out an earbud, his eyes narrowing. "What about her?" His tone was guarded, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Emma leaned closer, her maternal instinct overriding the fog of confusion that had plagued her since waking in different houses, different lives. "You said she's sick. I want to help. Tell me what's going on."
Ethan's jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he'd shut her out again. Then he sighed, tossing his notebook aside. "You won't get it," he muttered, but his shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. "She's… she's got cancer. Leukemia. It's bad, okay? And her parents, they're all about their stupid money and their big house, but they don't even care about her."
Emma's breath caught, a sharp pang slicing through her chest. Cancer. The word triggered a flood of images—hospital rooms, IV drips, small hands clutching hers. She pushed them down, focusing on Ethan. "How long has she been sick?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Ethan looked away, his fingers fidgeting with his earbud cord. "A while. She was in remission, but it came back. She's been hiding it from her parents, sneaking out to see me. That's why I took the motorcycle—to get to her faster." His voice broke, and he swiped at his eyes, angry at his own vulnerability.
Emma's heart ached. She reached for him, but he flinched, so she let her hand fall. "Ethan, why didn't you tell me? We could've done something—talked to her parents, gotten her help."
He laughed, a bitter sound. "Her parents? They'd lock her up in some fancy clinic and forget about her. And you…" He hesitated, his eyes meeting hers, raw and accusing. "You're never here, Mom. You're always… somewhere else."
The words stung, echoing David's earlier rebuke, and the ghosts of Lily and Noah flickered in her mind—Lily's bruises, Noah's stars. She wanted to argue, to say she was here, fighting for him, but doubt gnawed at her. Had she been absent? Lost in other realities? She shook her head, forcing herself back to Ethan. "I'm here now," she said, her voice fierce. "And I'm not letting you or Sophie go through this alone. Where is she? I need to talk to her."
Ethan hesitated, then pulled out his phone, scrolling to a contact. "She's at the park sometimes, by the old fountain. But she doesn't like people knowing. She's… proud, you know?"
Emma nodded, memorizing the details. "I'll find her. And we'll figure out what she needs—together."
He looked at her, his expression softening for the first time in days. "You promise?"
"I promise," she said, her voice cracking with the weight of it. She stood, ready to leave, but paused at the door, glancing back. "Ethan, I'm sorry if I've been… distracted. I love you."
He didn't respond, but his eyes held hers for a moment before he turned back to his notebook. Emma headed downstairs, her resolve hardening. She grabbed her keys, ignoring David's questioning look from the living room, and drove to the park, the address burned into her mind.
The park was quiet, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass. The fountain, moss-covered and dry, stood at the center, and there, sitting on its edge, was a girl. She was slight, her blonde hair tucked under a beanie, her face pale but defiant. Sophie. Emma approached slowly, her heart racing.
"Sophie?" she said, her voice gentle.
The girl's head snapped up, her blue eyes sharp with suspicion. "Who are you?" she demanded, her hand tightening around a small notebook in her lap.
"I'm Emma, Ethan's mom," she said, sitting beside her, careful not to crowd. "He told me about you. I want to help."
Sophie's expression hardened. "I don't need help," she said, but her voice wavered, and Emma noticed the way her hands trembled, the faint bruise from an IV on her wrist.
Emma's medical instincts kicked in, unbidden, as if they'd never left. "You're sick," she said softly, not a question. "And you're scared. But you don't have to do this alone."
Sophie's eyes widened, then filled with tears she quickly blinked away. "Ethan told you?" she whispered, her voice breaking. "He promised he wouldn't."
"He's worried about you," Emma said. "And so am I. Let me talk to your parents. We can get you the care you need."
Sophie laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "My parents? They're too busy with their parties and their money. They don't even know I stopped treatment." She looked away, her fingers tracing the edge of her notebook, and Emma's heart stopped.
"Stopped treatment?" Emma repeated, her voice barely audible. The words triggered another flash—hospital charts, desperate parents, a child's fading smile. She pushed it down, focusing on Sophie. "Why?"
Sophie shrugged, but her eyes were haunted. "What's the point? It's not working. I just want to live while I can, you know? With Ethan."
Emma's chest tightened, a mix of grief and determination. She wanted to argue, to pull Sophie into her arms, but she saw the steel in the girl's eyes, the same defiance she'd seen in Ethan, in Lily. "Okay," she said carefully. "But let me help you live, Sophie. We'll figure it out together."
Sophie didn't respond, but she didn't run, either. As they sat in silence, Emma noticed the notebook in Sophie's lap, its cover worn, a small, looping symbol etched into the corner. It was the same symbol she'd seen in Noah's notebook, on Lily's note. Her breath caught, a chill running through her.
"Sophie," she said, her voice low, "where did you get that notebook?"
Sophie glanced down, her fingers brushing the symbol. "It's just… something I've always had," she said, her voice distant. "Why?"
Emma didn't answer, her mind spinning. Ethan's girlfriend, Lily's bruises, Noah's stars—they were connected, not just by her, but by something deeper, something she couldn't yet name. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the park in shadow, Emma knew one thing for certain: she had to save Sophie, and in doing so, she might find the thread that tied her fractured realities together.