"Jane?" The voice came sharp from the kitchen. "If you're going to be gone all day, the least you could do is check in on your sick mother."
Jane Hayes winced as she closed the door behind her. "Sorry, Mom. I stayed back to finish a lab report. Professor Langdon was breathing down my neck again."
The scent of antiseptic filled the narrow hallway, faintly touched with something floral. She adjusted the strap of her satchel and sighed. Home always felt smaller when she was tired.
Fallon Hayes stood framed in the doorway, small, frail but still firm. A loose cardigan hung from her shoulders, her posture softened by illness, but her eyes still held quiet command.
"You've been gone all day and came back empty-handed? No groceries, no message." Her arms folded. "I can't keep reminding you."
Jane set her satchel on the couch and stepped closer. "I'll go back out. I just wanted to check on you first. And Mom, you really shouldn't be doing anything. I planned to handle the chores."
Fallon's expression eased, her tone dropped. "Come here."
Jane stepped into her mother's arms. The hug was brief but steady. Fallon's bones felt lighter than before, her breath slow and uneven. Each time Jane held her, she could feel the quiet clock they both tried to ignore.
"You shouldn't have to do everything," Fallon murmured. "But thank you, sweetheart."
They moved into the kitchen, where the counter was cluttered with pill packets beside a folded newspaper and a cup of tea gone cold. Fallon adjusted her oxygen tube with practiced care, while Jane pulled out a chair across from her.
"You're stretching yourself thin," she said gently. "Columbia, the job… and all this. You don't have to carry it alone. The bills are already covered. I told you before, I still have my retirement benefits."
Jane smiled faintly. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Mom. I'm just doing what needs to be done. Besides, staying busy helps me forget how bad things really are."
She was in her second year at Columbia, studying pharmacy. Most days blurred into one: lectures, labs, and late nights. In the evenings, she worked as an assistant secretary at Arkos Biotech, a mid-sized pharmaceutical firm recently acquired by a young, private CEO named Jace Davis.
She had only seen him once, from across the marble-floored lobby. He didn't need words to command a room. There was something measured in his movements, a calm authority that made the room shift with him.
Fallon reached for her daughter's hand. "Just… don't burn yourself out, okay?"
"I won't," Jane promised, though the dark circles under her eyes said otherwise.
Fallon hesitated, her gaze tender but distant. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something deeper but then, as if deciding against it, she simply nodded.
Silence filled the room. Heavy, but familiar. The doctors had given Fallon less than a year. The cancer was spreading. They didn't speak of it much anymore.
Jane rose and brushed her jeans. "I'll get the groceries now. You should rest."
As she reached the door, Fallon called after her, "Be careful out there."
Jane looked back with a small smile. "I always am."
*****
That same evening, far from the noise of the city, the Carrington estate stood tall and cold; a house built for power, not warmth. For generations, the Carringtons had been more feared than admired. They had money, silence, and reach. And they were known for solving problems before anyone could ask questions.
Tonight, the mansion's halls glowed with candlelight and the sound of low, solemn music. It was the tenth memorial for Elizabeth Carrington, the wife and mother who had died in a fire ten years ago. The fire had taken more than her life. It had hidden a truth.
In a large dressing room, Seraphina Carrington—called Phyna by her father—stood before a gilded mirror, adjusting her black lace gloves. Her beauty was sharp and distant, carved into perfection. She moved with precision, her every gesture measured, her every glance controlled. She was what the Carrington name demanded: poised, unyielding, untouchable.
Her father once said she would've made a better son.
The door opened quietly behind her.
"You're late," Phyna said without turning. "Mourning again? Ten years later and you still wear grief like a veil."
Thea Carrington stepped in. Soft, careful, the opposite of her sister. Her eyes flickered with sadness, but her voice stayed calm. She flinched but didn't respond. She was used to Phyna's cold jabs.
Phyna turned, smiling without warmth. "Still playing the ever-grieving saint, I see. It's exhausting."
"At least I remember her with dignity," Thea replied, steady this time. "That's more than I can say for you."
Before Phyna could answer, a soft knock interrupted. Martha, the long-serving maid, entered, slightly stooped with age, her eyes lowered out of habit.
"Forgive me, Miss Seraphina. Your father and the priest are waiting in the grand hall. The guests have arrived."
Phyna narrowed her eyes. "Did anyone ask you to speak, Martha?"
"Phyna," Thea said sharply, "she's worked here longer than we've lived. Show some respect."
"She's staff," Phyna replied, brushing past them. "Respect is earned. She knows her place."
Thea turned to the maid with a kind smile. "Thank you, Martha. We'll be down soon."
That night, under the chandeliers and stained-glass windows, the Carringtons gathered. The priest spoke of peace and redemption. But behind every prayer, something darker lingered in the air.
Something unspoken. A truth trapped in smoke.
*****
It was midnight.
In the small brownstone across the city, Jane tossed in her bed, caught in a restless sleep.
And the dreams came again, like they always did every year on the Fourth of July.
A red dress.
A scream, anguished, unmistakably female.
A faceless man reaching through flames. Blood trickled down his hand onto a gold ring that gleamed with firelight.
Jane woke up with a scream, skin damp in sweat with a racing heart.
Across the room, Fallon stirred from her chair, not surprised.
"The dream again?" she asked softly.
Jane nodded, still shaking. "Yes… but it felt clearer this time. Like I was closer to remembering."
Fallon was quiet for a long moment, then she reached for the small tin on the nightstand; the one she always kept close.
"Here," she said gently, shaking a single white pill into her palm. "Take this. It'll help you sleep."
Jane hesitated.
"You always give me this when I dream."
Fallon's smile was faint, almost tired. "Because it helps, doesn't it?"
Jane looked at the pill for a long moment before taking it. She swallowed it dry, her throat tight.
As the room blurred around her, Fallon stayed where she was, watching quietly.
"Sleep now, sweetheart," she murmured. "It's better when you don't remember."