"Jane?" came the sharp voice 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 mingled with something faintly floral in the narrow hallway as she stepped into the modest brownstone that had always been home. Adjusting the strap of her satchel, she exhaled, already exhausted.
Fallon Hayes stood framed in the doorway, small but formidable. Her thin frame was wrapped in a cardigan too large for her, but her gaze still held its subdued authority, tempered by illness yet not diminished.
"You've been gone all day and you came back empty-handed? No groceries, no message." She crossed her arms. "I can't keep reminding you."
Jane set her satchel gently on the couch and stepped closer. "I'll go back out. I just wanted to check in on you. And Mom, you really shouldn't be doing anything. I planned to handle the chores when I got home."
Fallon's expression softened, her voice lower. "Come here."
Jane stepped into her mother's arms. The embrace was brief but grounding. Her mother's bones felt more fragile than before, her breathing slow and shallow—reminders of the time they were trying not to count.
"You shouldn't have to do everything," Fallon murmured. "But thank you, sweetheart."
They moved to the kitchen, where the counter was cluttered with pill packets, a folded newspaper, and a cup of tea left untouched. Fallon adjusted her oxygen tube with practiced ease, while Jane pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
"You're stretching yourself thin," she said softly. "Columbia, the job… and then this. You don't have to carry it all alone. The bills are already covered, I've told you before. I still have my retirement benefits."
"I'm not trying to prove anything," Jane said with a small, tired smile. "I'm just… doing what needs to be done. Besides, being busy helps me forget how bad things really are."
She was in her second year at Columbia, studying pharmacy. Most days blurred together in a haze of lectures, labs, and exhaustion. In the evenings, she worked as an assistant secretary at Arkos Biotech—a mid-sized pharmaceutical firm recently acquired by a young, reclusive CEO named Jace Davis.
She'd only seen him once, from across the company's marble-floored lobby, but he'd left a distinct impression. He didn't need words to command a room. It was in the way he moved: measured, deliberate, as if the world shifted slightly to match his rhythm.
Fallon reached across the table and took Jane's hand. "Just… don't burn yourself out, okay?"
"I won't," Jane promised, though the shadows under her eyes suggested otherwise.
Fallon hesitated. Her gaze lingered on Jane's face, her lips parting slightly, on the verge of something deeper, more fragile.
But then, as if deciding against it, she simply nodded.
The silence that followed sat heavy between them—thick with what neither of them said. The doctors had given Fallon less than a year. The cancer was spreading. Jane knew it, even if the words were rarely spoken.
Rising from her seat, Jane brushed crumbs from her jeans. "I'll get the groceries now. You get some rest."
As she reached the door, Fallon called after her, "Be careful out there."
Jane looked back, offering a soft, reassuring smile. "I always am."
That same evening, far from the buzz of the city, the Carrington estate stood like a monument to secrets: tall, brooding, and cold. For generations, the Carringtons had been feared more than admired. Wealthy, private, and powerful. They had a reputation for silencing problems before questions were ever asked.
Tonight, the mansion's vast halls flickered with candlelight and the distant echoes of solemn music. It was the tenth memorial for Elizabeth Carrington, the wife and mother who had perished in a fire a decade ago. A fire that had taken more than a life. A fire that had buried the truth.
In one of the estate's grand dressing rooms, Seraphina Carrington—called Phyna by her father—stood before a gilded mirror, adjusting her black lace gloves with practiced elegance. Her beauty was arresting, but cold, chiselled and pristine, like marble carved for admiration, not affection. Every gesture was precise, controlled. She was the embodiment of the Carrington name: refined, calculating, untouchable.
If only she had been born a son, her father once confessed in private.
The door opened quietly behind her.
"You're late," Phyna said without turning. "Let me guess—mourning again? Ten years on, and you still wear grief like a veil."
Thea Carrington stepped in, soft-spoken and subdued, her eyes thoughtful, her presence gentle. She flinched but didn't respond. She was used to Phyna's cold jabs.
Phyna turned then, offering a smile that never reached her eyes. "Still playing the ever-grieving saint, I see. It's exhausting."
"At least I remember her with dignity," Thea replied, her voice low but firm. "That's more than I can say for you."
Before Phyna could reply, a soft knock interrupted. Martha, the long-serving maid, stepped inside, 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?"
Thea stepped forward, sharp for once. "Phyna, she's worked here longer than we've lived. Show some respect."
"She's staff," Phyna said with finality, brushing past them. "Respect is earned. She knows when to speak."
Thea remained, turning to the maid with a kind smile. "Thank you, Martha. We'll be down shortly."
That night, beneath the grand chandeliers and stained-glass windows, the Carringtons gathered. The priest spoke of remembrance and redemption, but beneath the prayers, something darker lingered in the air.
A tension. A shadow. A truth still hiding in smoke.
It was midnight.
In the small brownstone miles away, Jane tossed in her bed, tangled in the sheets, her body restless.
And the dreams returned—just as they did every year on the Fourth of July.
A red dress.
A scream, shrill, anguished, unmistakably female.
A faceless man reaching through flames. Blood trickled down his hand onto a gold ring that gleamed with firelight.
Jane sat up with a cry, soaked in sweat, heart racing.
Across the room, Fallon stirred from her chair. She didn't seem surprised.
"The dream again?" she asked softly.
Jane nodded, still shaking. "Yes… but this time, it felt clearer. Like I was closer to remembering."
Fallon was quiet for a long moment, her gaze distant.
Then she looked at Jane—not with fear, but with recognition.